


Promises Written On Water

by H0LYxSHiP



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Avoiding reconnecting slash rebuilding relationship, Certain references pertaining to K: Lost Small World, Extremely Symbolic at times, Friendship and Romantic Elements, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, Identity Issues, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Homosexuality, Male Protagonist, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Post Season 2, References to Anna/Kusanagi/Totsuka/Mikoto/Munakata/etc, Romantic Friendship, Some Humor, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Wax Poetic Writing, abstract writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H0LYxSHiP/pseuds/H0LYxSHiP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold onto each other, holding as hard as they can, but in the end it's too much. The currents too strong. They've got to let go, drift apart," -Kazuo Ishiguro</p><p>~They looked for something that wasn't there, they lost time and the world changed; and when both hands caught up, one fell forward and the other fixed. Like broken pieces of a nameless face-outdated and out of sync-they looked for what couldn't be found, in them selves and an each other, and didn't recognize something they once knew. They didn't know each other anymore, and the idea killed them, so they erased something in their hearts and floated through each other as lifelessly as ghosts. Calling one another by last names gave neither a face; that way they never had to come back to life. Because recalling who they were, meant admitting they were dead. Meant digging through the graves, and there was nothing Fushimi feared more than than the disappointment of living, of letting others in, the resurrection of the past, the ability to fall back apart. So his promises vanished in a ripple effect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One.

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, totally stole a lot of that summary from a story for something else i never wrote, so sorry if it's a tad awkwardly phrased, originally the quote is what I used to summarize the entirety. 
> 
> ***I want to say this first and foremost, but please keep in mind that this first chapter is a little bit more on the backstory side, scratch that, it is entirely background and stage setting. Narrated from Fushimi's perspective and very much and introspective and allegorical introductory chapter, it contains much and more wax poetic language and symbolic interpretation. My writing style is very analytical and may be difficult for some people to swallow in one sitting. HOWEVER THIS FORMAT WILL NOT MIRROR THE REST OF THE STORY. This is simply to get the bulk of that stuff out of the way. You will see the direct contrast in the second chapter. So if you can stomach the tedious building blocks of part one, you can see where the true heart and nature of the story lies. Such singular character focus and lack of dialogue is confine to the first half only, the rest is normal character interaction.***
> 
> Also, I find a lot of people tend not to understand the bulk of my ex-English major parallels and imagery; just keep in mind it's much more simple than it may appear. In short, it is all more or less an allegorical reflection of Fushimi having developed mechanical components, well rehearsed to the point they become part of his identity as a whole. He denounces his humanity and has great difficulty letting go of that defense, of telling himself apart from the fact and fiction he's created in place of true character. Basically, an identity crisis. Hopefully this helps with certain imagery, but again, to me, none of its confusing, so I have trouble conveying a more obvious explanation. BUT, work through it and I promise you will enjoy the second chapter immensely and find if much and more easy to read.
> 
> **also, wow, botched the author of the first quote, it's by Kazuo Ishiguro not Haruki Maruakami, for whatever reason I had them merged , the quotes that is, since they were right above/below each other in the same archive of quotes I'd been collectnig and writing down, whooopsie daisy*

_ _ _x.-*-.X.-*-x_ _ _

»ℙʀ✘ᵯⅈδɇȿ |✎|ẆṟⅈτʇҼƞ|✐|Ѳᵙ ẘα⊥ℇᴚ«

_ _ _X.-*-.x.-*-.X_ _ _

* * *

_**"I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold onto each other, holding as hard as they can, but in the end, it's too much. The currents too strong. They've got to let go, drift apart," -Kazuo Ishiguro.** _

* * *

Fushimi begrudgingly held back a signature  _tsk._ A force of habit that suddenly felt unnatural. The stunted intonation that escaped his throat into auditory range no longer slighting but defeated; a voluntarily self-deprecating sound that he was too distracted to feign. Too busy staring at the unfamiliarly eloquent stationary lines and arching strokes that curved effortlessly into script—how absolutely human his handwriting looked—so foreign and far removed from the cold, calculative numerical code he'd spent a lifetime perfecting to fit him flawlessly. Like a second set of skin that neither sticks nor stones could penetrate, let alone reach even a fraction of bone. So aware of the world that you couldn't even hurt his _feelings_ , not on the surface anyway, not really. Not as long as he turned inside out and wore his skeleton instead.

No need for saving face when the one you showcased wasn't really yours, an inexpressive canvas that concealed any and every admission of actual emotion. The perfect combination of intrigue, disinterest, and likelihood of being disparaged when taken too lightly. It was no more than a strategic advantage he'd been born with as far as he was concerned, although it may, in truth, have favored survival rather than strategy. It made little difference, he took hold of them and he evolved, this was all adaptive after all. Evolutionary. Survival of the fittest. A finite science. Things he understood. There was no room for something as toilsome as _feelings_ in such an equation, they allotted too much unnecessary sway, they were messy and convoluted, the only intangibility worthy of his time was that which could be warped. Tangible, touchable facets that he could twist and turn against anyone foolish enough to reach forward.

Fragile features could be just as deceptive as superficial muscle mass, and Fushimi had no need for amassed epidermal baggage to protect himself when he'd constructed this chainmail out of the very cartilage that kept him standing. Skin was too weak and revealing, damaged by the elements and unable to properly heal with time; while the skeletal structure was as strong as cast iron and as light as fiberglass, adaptable to functional demand and almost instantaneously able to repair itself. Swallowing his opponents like marrow, it was the ultimate defense, like a bioweapon within the body, intricate, concealed, and too complex to crack. Whereas flesh had never been a friend to him, to Fushimi, flesh was like a firewall that failed to uphold its intended purpose, outwardly communicating everything the second it was stabbed, composed of three entirely different layers and subdivided categorically, but unable to stop the flow of blood.

Bones didn't bleed.

But they drew it painlessly, in the blink of an eye, leaving many an adversary in a dazed, disoriented stupor, so fixated on their external surroundings that they never saw it coming. Angered and agitated by the boy who'd brought grown men to their knees without a single scratch, this nondescript individual who kept a few more than _just a few_ tricks up his sleeve, dexterity and mental precision that went unrivaled and far beyond the comprehension of the common man, there was a _reason_ he was renown as one of the most desirable hidden weapons users. Invading all forms of personal security because that was the way of survival for those who were never raised, experts of invisibility. Whether by defect or design, children learn not by coincidence but by choice, even when they were not their own, they were still required to live with them. Just as he did his. The possessions he'd inherited in place of parents, brought into the world without his consent.

The product of irresponsibility and adolescence, the mistake of two nineteen-year-olds who had failed to correct it in time. He was merely a consequence they were now required to keep. Like impulsively buying a pet you realized you didn't want to take care of, their interest was lost the second they'd peered through the glass and given him a name with no meaning. Or perhaps their mutual disinterest had been decided long before the idea of loving him had even crossed their minds. Because _most_ newborns leave the hospital with their parents, a mother and a father, and a new home somewhere in the horizon that their little eyes weren't even developed enough to see; except he'd learned to see much differently than just  _most_ children, and as far as Fushimi was concerned, they were no more than strangers who buckled him into a car seat and drove him someplace where he took his meals and went to sleep at night, there was never any  _family,_ and certainly never one that brought him _home_. It was just a house. With windows and doors, four walls, and a roof—no, that wasn't right either, four was far too simple, the number of walls in that house seemed to grow exponentially—after all, they were impossible to walk through.

Fundamentally ideal and indicative of the complete disinterest and commonplace existence of impersonal identities that didn't wish to be disturbed, who didn't want the first or last thing to do with one another let alone the constant disruption of having to see their faces. Isolation being the entire objective and nothing more. Or maybe that's just what wealthy people did when they wanted to produce an illusion of stability, building and building like a balancing act, desperately overcompensating for the fact there was no real foundation, just intercepting rows of dominos waiting to topple. Having put too much emphasis on the importance of the exterior to lose sleep over such contrived triviality. And paying the price. That had been one of his first lessons, one of those childhood observations that didn't quite _click_ , never understanding the point of putting up such a superficial front or what compelled them to exhaust such unnecessary resources if they weren't going to be applied to the proper places, the inability to fathom why it  _possibly_ mattered what something looked like on the outside if everything on the inside was falling apart.

"… _you don't need a home like that."_

The sound of that voice in his head made him shudder, the genuine concern and underlying sentiment rifting around the room in what had become such a chilling cadence, the simplicity of his own one bedroom flat becoming an unwanted reminder of something else entirely, something much heavier. The looming evidence of the presence of the last ghost he wanted to be haunted by when there were already far too many in the room with him already.

Feeling stupid, clicking his tongue as if an insult were about to form with flawless execution, only to find something stopping him. Something interfering, something shutting down, something standing very unmistakably in the way. Like a command control, he couldn't override, his thoughts clotting, forming like cancerous masses in his throat. A sort of sadness that dissipated before it could take shape, scattering and dispersing, as he sank into the back of his seat, even toned as always and closing his eyes. The incertitude eliciting the sudden desire to respond without question losing out to the concession of such a low, mollified voice, "That wasn't where my home was," Fushimi corrected with no specific emotion. "Not even close."

That was the beauty of the lesson he'd learned as a child, the ignorance that wasn't bliss, but a sense of balance, having complete and total control of his outward appearance allowed him to fortify what was on the inside, the stability to keep standing by denying his features their very right to fall out of place. Convinced and ensured by the self-preserving strategy that, to be a skeleton, he must learn to cast a proper shadow, like a puppet along the walls. Even though they bent at his fingertips, even though they moved in motion with the rest of him, every image was superficial, and all the strings were carefully attached. And there was no one better qualified to pull them than himself, producing this marionette-like limitation of any and all expression. A mouth that moved, but never truly spoke. Painted eyes that saw everything, but revealed nothing. Arms and legs all dancing on seven strings, twisting, but never tangling, like some quadruped beast, emulating basic shapes from a safe distance.

Predisposed to the superiority of symmetry, the importance of proportional illusory, he'd never had anything come quite so naturally or confuse everybody else so laughably. Most people didn't want the truth, he supposed, only tickets to see the show, and who was he to deny them that? To prevent them from eating the bait from the palm of his hand all while willingly paying the designated price? The refusal to work out the details because it was so far less fun than being fooled, _so why not let them be fools?_ he'd thought _,_ selling out as he set about developing such an art. A man of a thousand faces, a shadow that no longer required the light, he perfected his craft too masterfully and it wasn't long before he lost sight of the stage. Act and actor both an embodiment and isolation of true self, absorbing, reflecting, and ultimately rejecting the fruits of his labors, the very secrets of his success, the lack of awareness that the audience was no longer the one being fooled.

And loving every second. Far more desirable than the intended result, second nature rivaling mere skill. Something so much harder to understand, and even harder to deconstruct, a little well-known fact how effectively men fear what they did not know, the resultant desire to possess what they'd never before seen. And that's the exact reputation he needed to build, for the world to follow, the infamous uniqueness to effortlessly blend in.

An apprehended air of unpredictability that inevitably kept others at bay or unprepared for the collision of a plastic casing they couldn't pierce, that kept everything inside from ever falling apart, so contradictorily aware of the fragility that he took any means necessary to protect it. And when manacled joints began to mobilize, whenever something got too close, he simply solidified and shut it out completely, never breaking character, carrying on with the show. And when that didn't work, when the rarity of the proximal phenomenon in which the perceived object accomplished the equal grounds upon which to be deemed a threat, then Fushimi reached inside and tore the damn thing out himself. No matter the pain. No matter the loss. He'd experienced it once too many to ever grant anybody that kind of power over him again.

They were unnecessary anyways, more an occupational hazard than a vital feature—just complimentary software that could be dragged to the trash and emptied—erasing all the valuable space it was taking up and deactivating the required actions for recovery. Better given to something constructive, less heavy and easier to hold. Something specialized that couldn't just be accessed by just _anyone_ , personalized to the point it had to be given and was no ones to take. And he'd never allowed the latter let alone consider what came beforehand, there was a saying about hearts after all, _and I believe it goes hand in hand with the word **broken**._

Another thing he couldn't afford. Physical properties already struggling now that they'd been stripped of their support beams, transitioning self-proclaimed strength into social perception. The endless stereotypes he'd always battled unraveling to reveal more fact than fiction and far more infuriation as his fist furrowed into the bunching fabric against his thigh. Teeth not quite pulled into a _tsk_ , but mirroring the motions.

Lithe and graceful, he was often underestimated, invalidated, and denounced. **"Weak. Nerd. Four Eyes."** _No adjective or insult that rivals even an iota of intelligence, as elementary and ineffective as the overcompensating school bullies who spouted them._ An unintentional semblance of a smile crept into the corner of his cheek, temporarily losing sight of self-analysis, a sort of involuntarily necessitating narrative that was constantly reaffirming his own inadequacy, and then falling back into the ideas and emotions that had originally triggered the ongoing cycle. The rare occasion to be real again. The touch and go footage of a discarded leather wallet being carelessly tossed, the collision of something so small and no better suited than himself whose presence carried such a fierce intensity.

The silhouette of a stranger he'd never spoken with intercepting and stepping between an otherwise routine process for Fushimi, for seemingly no better reason than reaffirming his own sense of purpose. His own way of fighting off the feeling of falling apart. Selfish, maybe, and something that at the time he himself had seen only for the weakness and stupidity of such evident disparity; however, it was the first time anybody else had ever tugged at his strings. So brief, but secretly unprecedented, that it'd caught him off guard. The subtlest spark of curiosity that caused him to lose sight of them, those strings, never noticing in those ten minutes that he'd dropped them.

The rare sight of Fushimi in motion, however short-lived, had been exhilarating.

Feeling so unendurably depleted and fragmentary, the memory reel bleeding into the ferocity of redirected disdain and disinterest that followed, the evident damage he'd inflicted, successful. And the correlation had been that of negative proportion, only drawing the opposition more inundated, more undeniably. Until the long since revisited scenes projecting through his eyes fast forwarded to the almost inaudible _click-clank-shhf_ of an unhinging latch in an unsuspecting bathroom stall, an unanticipated invitation that he himself had not been particularly fond of, but extended nonetheless. To _that person_ of all people, irksome the manner in which their personalities should have repelled and resisted like two opposing magnets, vexatious the way they clung and clicked instead; invasive and interruptive, so _agitating_ this interest with his facade of indifference was.

And yet, in the silence, in the off-standish seconds spent inside the tan and taupe colored enclosure that gave them little more than a few feet of space and a toilet seat, systematically spinning cubes, he had pretended not to have noticed that presence emanating such uncensored fascination from the floor by his feet. More or less disinterested until it was no longer the game nor self-imposed prospect of inclusion in the opposing pair of eyes. It was him. Those eyes had lost interest in anything else, the focus shifting, golden irises encasing him mesmerically, morphing in and out of an intuitive understanding, a thoughtful and genuine sincerity so unaccustomed that Fushimi almost felt something akin to embarrassment.

Nobody had ever looked at him that way. It made him shiver, although he'd never have admitted it, blank fascination blurring into a fluttery sort of anxiety, sensing his own exposure, those eyes across from him that seemed to go plaintive in their silence. The auras of beaten gold and flecked amber that appeared to say, _"you're trapped_ , _"_ but pried no further. Neither dilating nor constricting in speculation, never refocusing or trying to understand or even ask why just this silent knowledge that lacked ulterior motive. So pure. So spot on. So unexpected that, for the first time, Fushimi's world unintentionally opened up, even if just a fraction, and allowed another to enter.

Such a pivotal moment that even now he felt it palpitate in his chest, the immediacy of a suppressed sensation resuscitating too potently that he shoved it back into the deepest recesses of his mind until the flashback tapered off in a vacant flickering. Overwhelmed and well aware he'd redirected his own automatic train of thought in avoidance, but to what, although resistant, he knew exactly.

It was the sound of death and distant thunder, a delicate sort of suffering that came in the form of a dull rumbling, the pulmonary restriction of breaths held whenever he gave into these false notions of hope. The vulnerability that wrapped around his throat because his memories were like a noose that bound him, that only tightened as he struggled with what had become incompatible. _Time._ Past and present never failing to align in never-ending resonance, looming overhead with darkening skies that began to leak, into the fibers, into the rope, until it started to strangle him more quickly as he drown. Unable to keep his head above a storm that couldn't be stopped, despite his dissent. The emotions entangled and just as much a part of him, struck down by the vast divisions between depths of darkness and different affiliations with the light. The absolute truth that there _was_ no absolute truth, but in attempts to argue against was no different than admitting existence in the first place, and the contradictory nature of his thoughts became intolerable.

Streaks of scarlet and constant static striking twice as currents of atmospheric electricity discharged, casting blinding flashes of blue and white, cutting through the sky and colliding with the surface where they sank and submerged alongside him. Goddamn, it hurt so bad. Surrounded and swallowed, although he could no longer speak, vision disjoining and hearing canceling out, the uncertain timing of a certain end sick of chasing at his heels and holding him prisoner instead. Even if for just an instant, it was enough to illuminate that, _he who hesitates is truly lost_. Weighed down by the differences between the way things were and the way they ought to be. And all the shit he still couldn't say.

 _Pathetic,_ he sighed, pushing away from the desk.

Feeling skeletal tissue disintegrate and decay, impenetrable counterparts losing formation to the divide, the inextricable void his voice had cascaded, cut off, and cast him into without warranting approval. As if that self-created sense of security he'd sewn together with more or less indifference, to begin with, had snagged beneath the wheels of a skateboard and steadily unraveled. And it infuriated him to no end how willingly his subconscious had betrayed him. Despite the preexisting awareness that he was much too calculative and far too controlling of his minds inner workings to have let something so impressionable just slip through undetected. And that acknowledgment was a watered down drink that was too difficult to swallow. Unable to displace or dilute the self-reproach of an intractable forfeit.

 _Sticks and stones_ , he reiterated absently, maintaining a mental structure to map out even his own private unfolding of thought, too meticulous, and arguably paranoid to leave any such openings. _As if there was anything left to break,_ he almost laughed, that bitter self-loathing sinking in so far that it too became indecipherable. The armor. The disdain. The painfully evident discomfort. The sheet of paper upstaging the shut, sealed and silenced PDA and personal computer alike. Proof enough that somewhere, lurking beneath the mechanical cogs, was someone who's face he hadn't worn in years. An innocent, fragile place that was precious to him. The interconnecting anthills tunneling through the vast intricacies of what he feared to revisit because the fear itself was of failing it. _Again_. Of disappointing the only something that had ever _been_ something. For the second time.

Or was it the third? Fourth? _Fifth?_ He'd lost count.

Something much softer than scoffing and scowling that he'd both sacrificed and severed in a single breath. That's how easily it had fallen. _I didn't huff, certainly didn't puff, and yet rendered everything structureless._ Fushimi hadn't even needed words, those small minded insults he loathed, no, he'd learned to live with the language that was action. Forward motion, forgetting the past, but forwards didn't mean he'd ever stopped falling, motion was a fickle beast like that. And with no other way to supply the right words he'd never found, considered, or believed would've mattered, he'd taken Isaac Newton's so-called 'laws of motion,' and decided to see just how effective they'd be in battle. _Not that I'd wanted a_ **battle,** _I never wanted anything that…_ **vindictive** _…all I ever wanted…_

 _Tsk._ This time it couldn't be helped, and he was certain even Edison was turning his grave with laughter while Newton slapped his knee and fathomed how to conceive the resultant stupidity of what had been Fushimi's ' _bright idea_.' Incorporating universal laws with something he'd somehow forgotten was a person and not a science fair project, forgetting those things called feelings that he'd never cared for himself still existed in others—still mattered—that they were volatile and very poor test subjects. Allowing those horrid, undignified outbursts to control, contort, and capture all his focus. The ill at ease, hand-wringing inevitability that overtook him the second he'd assessed his surroundings, an atmospheric shift immune to logic, reason, or his ability to avoid the casualty ten seconds before the crash.

An object at rest will remain at rest, so he'd let the opposing force hit him at full speed, right in the chest, with no other choice as he braced for impact; counter-wise, an object in motion will remain in motion until disrupted by an external force. Fushimi became that force. Constantly moving onward, right past the wreckage. By comparison, he may have given off the impression of stagnation, a lack of ambition or exertion, at least when the juxtaposition was side by side against _him_ , but they were both in motion now. However their speeds had not been preset, and the velocity and the momentum that propelled them was proportionally different. He could sense it with every sideways, heart-wrenching drop of his gaze, but the way it felt was much worse. _Much_ worse. And if they continued in this pattern, undisrupted, who knows how far they may have strayed from one another, so he stood firm, and the motion ceased.

Never realizing the true extent of what surrendering to inertia would cost him.

Both objects at rest. The beginning of the end. Although it wouldn't, technically speaking, be true to say that he hadn't lifted a finger, so to be precise, he'd lifted four. That's all it took. Four fingers and a little fire, _…you were supposed to understand…I just wanted you to…_ another _tsk,_ projected inwardly. Internally scowling at himself for burying his head in the sand like an ostrich, just biding away his time in an empty, darkened encasement, dwelling on otherwise avoidable events he'd failed to face head-on, even while doing exactly that.

A single stroke of his fingers pressed diligently against pale flesh in place of a keyboard and a subtle frown found its way across his lips, scarcely altering his usual stance for those who didn't know him beyond what they'd already decided. Who didn't know the first place to look. To see the slightly downward pull of a face that had long since forgotten how to smile, the subtle, systematic shifts and fluctuations that few and far between had even the faintest idea where to find.

And only one who knew how.

The tearing apart from the inside out of what he'd once sworn at all costs to protect, to never force another living soul to experience the heart-wrenching sensation of cold hands reaching into their chest and dismantling everything they believed in. The premeditated murder of their most fundamental elements, the very components that defined them, suddenly gone without a trace. As if a hole had opened up somewhere deep inside that they couldn't find and would never recover.

 _Yeah._ He'd taken it too far…but he'd been pushed to the precipice of an ongoing panic attack, rivaled, replaced, and run down by the first and only friend he'd ever had—ever trusted other than himself. Fading into the background of a secret base that was no longer theirs—or to be precise—into the backdrops of the best friend who no longer belonged to him. Who he selfishly never wanted to share. But if it was as simple a matter as their opposing social capacities, he could have gotten over it. Overlooked the sensation in his chest as nothing more than irrational, adolescent jealously overreacting. After all, Homra was like _Never-Never-Land,_ and the lot of them the lost boys—everyone was here for their own reasons—the group disorganized and composed of varying strengths and weaknesses and personalities that clashed and collided in constant harmony. So it's not like he himself hated  _everyone_ except _that guy_.

For instance, Anna, she was unsettlingly quiet and a tad bit prying with her all-knowing gaze, but she'd developed a certain fondness for Fushimi, as to why or for what fathomable reason he couldn't tell you; but, admittedly, he found the silence of her company a much-welcomed comfort. Compatible in their shared ability to just _be_ —the absence of words that exhausted him to no end becoming a weight he never had to worry about—it was a curious contrast to the chaos, but one that had done more for him than he'd ever repaid. He doubted whether or not he'd even tried, scratch that, he knew, and he hadn't. Not that she'd ever asked for anything in return, just gazed through a ruby sphere at the  _Gloomy Fushimi,_ and curled up beside him the way she did her King. Although, in truth, he'd considered, more often than not, that she may have just tuned into his loneliness well ahead of the others, a concept that kept him on edge as everything worsened and went wayward.

Then, of course, there was Kusanagi, an unexpectedly intellectual man who may've rivaled even Fushimi's _IQ,_ and without a doubt far exceeded his social skills, but since Kusanagi typically engaged him in a one-on-one manner, he never once felt overshadowed. Quite the opposite actually, and at times, although he felt stupid for saying so, it made him feel just a little bit special, often selected over the others to accompany their second in command on business and casual ventures alike. Somehow another member who seemed to be more in-tune with his moods than he himself had ever been.

Never dragging him to the typical "Homra" excursions—but museums and exhibits—one time even a technological expo with all sorts of gizmos and gadgets and the latest in cutting-edge software. One of his well-known talents, but nothing anyone had ever gone out of their way to treat as a hobby as opposed to an upper hand, taking the boy for the sheer purpose of enjoying himself. A seemingly insignificant, but deeply personal gesture for the one it'd been extended toward, never having remembered being quite so excited. Enthralled by the mechanical world, entranced by the overwhelming quantities, qualities, and endless possibilities. All of which he'd harbored carefully behind features too hesitant to have such a direct contradiction to his character exposed, of course, albeit embarrassed nonetheless when he'd shyly rejected Kusanagi's excessive kindness. Encouraging him to pick out anything he wanted, extending the implied intention of buying it for him, however, Fushimi had been startled, sheepish enough to let show, then shook his head, insisting that bringing him was already enough and that anything he wanted he would pay for himself.

" _You're certainly quite grown up, aren't you Saruhiko?" Kusanagi laughed_ —only ever using his first name in a selective atmosphere that he somehow always knew was appropriate—or dare he admit, a little needed. Frowning all over again, the familiar echo of Kusanagi's dialect dragged the downward angle of his mouth to the floor, spinning slowly in his seat, ashamed like a child who'd broken something precious and blamed someone else. _You should never have said such nice things to me,_ he thought involuntarily, _you should have never trusted me…_ his crestfallen face composed uneasily in equal parts of petulance and discomfort, deeply saddened by the disconnect from the only man who'd ever felt like a father to him—call it daddy issues or whatever you'd like—but it was something special Fushimi had never received from his own. The attention, the subtle comments and things he noticed—little things only a parent would bother to compliment or encourage. And so learning of Kusanagi's hopes of having him succeed him once he'd already made his descent over to Scepter 4 probably pained him the most, never quite able to look him in the eye again after that. Even when the warmth still shown nostalgically in the gentlemen's eyes, there was also the sincerity of true sadness that Fushimi had left them. But just like a parent would, he never scolded or ridiculed or branded him a traitor like all the rest, simply sat back and allowed him to forge his own path; with a smile, that although downcast, wanted what was best for him, despite not agreeing with the way he went about it. _One_ day he'd apologize, Fushimi decided,  _somehow…_

And then lastly, but farthest from least, there was Mr. Totsuka—a queer man with even queerer tastes, and a big mouth that Fushimi wouldn't have minded if he'd kept closed and to himself more often. Especially when it came to announcing certain details, theories, and observations that were never anything short of strictly personal and not meant for the ears of others. Embarrassing him insufferably. But to Fushimi, Totsuka would always remain that "sunny spot" that sheltered him from the inferno, almost as if to say, even weeks before his initiation into Homra, that not everyone felt the same within the flames. That the sun also rises. That there could be something else. That he had no reason to hide amidst an environment that felt like enveloping darkness. That everything would work out in the end…he almost teared up thinking about it when he'd first received the news. Right there in the middle of Scepter 4, fingers going foreign against his keyboard, Lt. Awashima's instructions no more than subtitles in a silent film he feared to face long enough to read.

Having briefly excused himself from his station and walked down the halls, past the other Blues, with no trace of expression or reason to arouse suspicion until he'd finally collapsed in an alleyway a few blocks away and begun to cry. A mix of sadness, anger, guilt, and regret all pouring down and soaking into the concrete in a deluge of confliction; a thousand thoughts that spiraled and yet couldn't catch a moments peace to take on the proper shapes, unable to locate the most basic elements, as if his insides were a card catalogue that someone had dumped on the ground. So many titles, genres, and interpretations no longer at his disposal, no quelling the burning, no false comforts behind which to hide. Just a kaleidoscope shifting from one incomplete image to the next, blackened stained glass comprised of deep-set shades, charcoal, midnight, and rich scarlet percolating through this nightmarish permanence, unable to cope with the finality of it all; but mostly the fact that the last time he'd seen him, he'd been on opposing sides—a turncoat—a traitor—treasonous scum.

 _"Don't sweat it…"_ he cringed, pulling himself back in the direction of his desk, wheels creaking beneath his seat while his thoughts softly corrected, even if Totsuka didn't think that way, _it doesn't change what I was, it doesn't change what I did, and now he's gone. I can't change a damn thing, I couldn't even say goodbye,_ reluctantly pressing his hand to his mouth, he wondered what expression he'd left Totsuka with, what heartless wretched smirk had been stitched across his face as the man watched from afar. How cruel and unusual karma was painting him when there was no dissuading that his final impression had been lasting,  _eternally_ , the ugliest side of a two-faced coin. _I wish they'd shot me instead,_ he grimaced, _at least that way all he'd of seen was the casket creak and close, a pristine mahogany finish and the few people pretending to care._ Anything would have been better than the truth. Than the enemy throwing daggers, from his mouth and through his fingertips, aimed at the target that had once taken him in, making a complete mockery of the pivotal milestone that made him who he was today. Not that _that_ was favorable. But without the red, there would have been no blue, and without blue, there'd still have been Totsuka. No rain to extinguish the flames. No reason for this awful twisting leftover in his chest he couldn't will away.

No matter how wasted the effort, no matter how futile and barren these attempts to contemplate the past, knowing he'd cast any shadow over that sunny spot, even for a second, and could never take it back still ate away at him. The fact he couldn't show his face at the funeral, even if he'd wanted to, killing him completely. His final memories, the lasting images imprinted upon his brain being the sound of gunfire, the collision of a body against concrete, the blood, the almost inaudible breaths that couldn't breathe anymore. Slow, wheezy lungs filling with fluid and growing gradually scarce, more stunted, less frequent. All light extinguishing as Fushimi was forced to watch the smug expression and earsplitting voice of the man who murdered him talking over the sound of Totsuka dying—slowly, painfully. Entirely alone.

And then five more shots.

 **_BANG_ ** _. **BANG**. **BANG**. **BANG**. **BANG**_

Fushimi had thrown up the first time he'd seen it. To shoot him was unforgivable enough, but overkill on an already dying man was something that boiled his blood so hot it brought the vibrancy of the Homra insignia beneath his collarbone back to life, so much so, it showed through his shirt. _Totsuka wasn't supposed to die..._ not the sun…it was _him_ who was supposed to crash into _us_ , to grown 15 billion years old and reinvent the world, changing forever; aye, it'd indeed disappeared, died out, and disfigured everything, that much was true, just in the last way he never imagined.

 _I always told him not to go around that area after dark,_ he grew angry, this bipolar bypassing of emotions and his stupid self for allowing any of them to surface, but still, _if only I'd still been there…_ he couldn't abandon or override their persistence to move on their own accord, _I'm certain he'd of dragged me with, I know it, even just to irritate me—insisting I was much more knowledgeable when it came to technolog_ y—as if the camera weren't so old and out of Fushimi's expertise…

He shook his head, the look in his eyes impossible to hide, three ghosting images, so important, but so indicative of something else. _Someone_ else. Someone far more dead and far more important than to have been murdered on a mere whim; someone who could've befriended every Tom, Dick, and Harry and never thrown him through such hoops he'd gone to great lengths trying to ignore.

But it wasn't his former friend's _socializing_ that shifted, it was his alliance, his attention, his obsession with Mikoto that made Fushimi feel obsolete and second rate. No longer worthy of praise. And he didn't care that he'd switched sides when it was the other boy who'd abandoned him long before that—it was a different sort of betrayal, but to Fushimi, it was far more severe—it severed the only connection he'd had to _sever_ —and in the end, it was no longer salvageable. He thought…maybe…had _hoped,_ that by separating, _he_ would put things into perspective. That he'd understand this was Fushimi's way of trying to save them. By removing himself from the cause of his mood swings, assuming it was only logical they could go back to the way it was before if Fushimi could only go back to being himself; that time apart would bring something they'd been losing back to their time together—some added value—a rekindled fondness and ability to communicate.

He'd never been more wrong. Not in his whole life. And it wasn't only his friend at fault. He'd gone mad, an emotional floodgate crashing down against such an extreme build up of pressure—ultimately wanting him to hurt the way he did if those damn gold-flecked eyes looked through him _one_ more time without fessing up to the fact they were dying, the fact he was sinking so very fast and hadn't the faintest idea how to swim. When he still couldn't acknowledge what his own, _'oh so beloved'_ King could see from a thick cloud of smoke away without lifting a goddamn finger.

Growing restless and equally irritated, he broke composure in order to slump his whole upper body over the desk. Arms immediately folding, head tilted to one side, fingering the glasses from his face. As if poor eyesight could ever displace the shapes and shifts of shades morphing in and out of a symmetry he knew better than he knew himself. The shadow that had never stopped following him that he silently searched for—turned towards, expecting to still be standing by his side, no matter how much time had passed. Having practically been such a part of his own that he'd never quite learned how to separate them. How to let go of what was already gone. What he'd let go, but so very clearly failed. Never more than a fleeting memory away. Quick, carefree, and crashing against the concrete like he was made for it. Probably because he _was,_ was born to battle and brave the bullshit they'd clung to so desperately once and tried to call "theirs." An empty place lost in time in which they thought they had total control, chasing fantasies like the future was so far away, the air of nostalgia that belonged to that place and that place alone.

" _Maybe, if we…" he sounded as if he was murmuring to himself_ , repeating ancient dialogue in his head that he'd thought long escaped him by now, _"…had gotten onto it,"_ inhaling deeply, " _would something have changed?"_

A question he'd never stopped asking himself since this descent into madness had begun. Returning to that moment over and over in his mind a million times. If only he could hit rewind, pause, then stop time forever—they could have stayed like that, _forever—_ captured like the most candid photograph—eternally preserving the perfect opportunity he'd never have to worry whether or not he'd missed because he'd never know it was gone. All he would know was that the two of them were together, eyes wide and trusting, his own feeling as if they were seeing the world for the first time. So unlike himself, slowly unfolding, cutting his strings, and feeling a closeness he'd never dreamed of or ever wanted before they'd met.

 _We should have just chased that ship till we disappeared too_. Away, far, far away from here, with no kings, no opposing force to challenge and change us.

Just _us._ That's all I wanted.

But logic was losing out lately to the verdicts of such faulty intelligence, and Fushimi was falling victim to the fight or flight that never forfeit. That fought persistently till the past came pouring down across his circuit board, frying the internal hard drive he called a heart and denying him his only defenses. Fuses shorting and algorithms hardly resisting, but that was no excuse, and Fushimi clung to them. His circuits. His strings. Rerouting, rewiring until everything crashed. Every and all systems failing, flailing and gasping to grab hold of a safety net he'd slit to pieces then set on fire.

"I _tried_ to hold on…"

Thick rimmed glasses shielded pale, aquamarine eyes like decretive lenses, but behind which he could no longer hide. Eyes and expression falling over the quote in agony—pained features assessing these things called words he'd once denounced and rejected as naive, immature sounds people strung into meaningless, undeniable excuses, and cringing at their sudden accuracy.

"...I tried _so_ hard."

Nimble fingers furrowing tightly into midnight tresses as his stomach tensed with the forward motion of his face falling against the sheet of foreign sentiment. Teeth clenched and eyes that burned, hot and wet, without any understanding what it meant to cry. All red and reflective, fracturing like broken glass, but too frozen, too solid to possibly weep.

"How many times does _he_ have to **_bury_** me before he realizes I'm running out of bones to break," Fushimi cursed, so emotionally uncharacteristic that for a fraction of a second he half expected to see his Father.

That wretched mirror like murder effect of a face that fixedly transmuted all its features onto his own. The one semblance of something passed down from the previous generation, the impersonal image of the man who had never once considered him his son. The inescapable impression of wide, bright blue eyes extinguishing and falling austerely to the ground while the person who was supposed to love him most simply smiled; the twisted sensation of knowing that he too had witnessed the sight of someone's world shattering so similarly to his own once and laughed. _He cried and I_ **laughed** _,_ something akin to emotional seasickness washing over him and refusing to subside, nauseous at the idea of the interposing imagery of an apple that hadn't fallen from the tree at all but exchanged places with it, assuming an identity he'd never asked for.

The evidence he wished with every fiber of his being could be burned away, or omitted from memory. The single prevailing truth that he had become his father—astonishing brilliance that was constantly overshadowed by the looming void that was reserved for ridicule and reveled in its restriction. Suffocating any sentiment from such a handsome face by stealing all its color, blending and blurring the basic pallets into something twisted and complex that he'd been trying to untangle since he was six. Like his own face had faded into another's overtime until the plasma congealed into plastic so different than the kind he'd once chosen, and the world had fractured it into ever-changing tiles. A Rubik's cube with no corresponding color pattern, every block having only ever been a superficial sticker that weathered and wore away until each and every space was completely blank, spinning and shifting to no avail. A defective design that could never be solved. That didn't belong anywhere. Having jumped from color to color, out of certainty and into shades, voided indistinguishable patterns.

When the pieces to the so-called puzzle that was his personality were shallow and utterly see through. The insincerity was overwhelming, the obsolescence even worse. No matter how much effort, skill, pure genius, or even time spent could ever create a bigger picture. There was nothing to protect and nothing to save—no real opportunity to ever create or be cared for. No eye to capture where there was only emptiness and endless indecision. Not the faintest trace of gold staring back eagerly or angrily or able to pull all the answers effortlessly off his face.

How was he expected to express what was never there to begin with, that had never even _existed_? To communicate…to confront when he was conditioned to flippancy and flight? Seeing in black and white was magnetic, _but our polarity has always been shades of gray_ , the Rubik's cube with no discernible solution, we were practically begging for a head-on collision, _and we've been estranged ever since._ It's been so long…he trailed off hesitantly…it was easy to pretend it never happened because we tried our hardest to cover it up, with rivaling colors and contrary collisions, _but we were constantly connected, and catastrophe was, and always will be, our catalyst._

Set into motion before cassette tapes became compact discs, but got misplaced somewhere in the conversion—like lyrics to a song we forgot, there was no sound to transcribe or translate the rest into words. _We lost time and the world changed_ , it was that simple, but why rewind and fast forward over something we could skip entirely? Was it not like that from the very beginning? Wasn't it so like them to dance through conversation rather than allowing one to take place? Like a self-destructing dichotomy set to music, they craved constant static. Keys to strike and notes to hit, nothing as parlous and precarious as lyrics, coined to be catchy and less convoluted than actual emotion, they were misleading and lethal and most of them lies. And he was absolutely terrified of them.

Words were disruptive, words were invasive, and words left scars.

Fingertips floated, phantom-like, to the space beneath his collarbone, like a metaphorical leash that had been secured, surrendered, but never successfully removed. The intertwining, intricate swirl that lay behind four risen bars of skin. All jagged and protruding like a self-fashioned prison. Mutilated and maimed, and still not man enough to admit he missed it. The one and only mirror image he didn't mind so much. The matching piece to the only corresponding set he'd ever had. The only list of words he could never take back because they'd never been spoken—the reciprocations his ears were never again met with because he'd cut them all short.

The shadow that had followed in his footsteps until the shades and silhouettes shifted in and out of one another, morphing into a sanctuary they could share. The safety of their secrecy. Their stupidity, their star-crossed, fated, perfect, piece of shit life, of the world they'd forged and fused into a shared skin. So content with having no one else, so effortless to get lost in one another with no concern for the reality that waited for them on the other side. The kind of sappy, misconstrued storyline Fushimi abhorred, but never stopped slipping into. The only place he'd ever felt secure. Until it too had been pushed and pulled and pulverized to smithereens. Still frames and unspoken _I'm sorry's_ that lay strewn about his feet in shards.

His joints twitched, fingers flexing and inching in such routine motion, stroking the mark he'd once declared a curse as delicately as one would caress an irreplaceable face, a sort of subconscious affection that swept over him years after he'd stepped carelessly over those remains. Fingers transitioning into claws, like throwing knives had replaced his fingernails, burrowing so deeply that he actually drew blood. Red. Like magma—molten—manifesting and melting into the pristine blue turncoat like the traitorous murderer he was, finally his turn to bleed, losing elasticity; the ability to rebound when stretched too far, skin spread so thin, intensifying the extent of damage. And he'd long since ripped his off, hanging it in a closet of skeletons it no longer fit—he doubted now more than ever if it ever really had. Overwhelmed with cowardice, convinced he was incapable of fitting into even himself at this point. Even after getting halfway there, his words drifted and disappeared like ripples in a pond, never quite confident enough to retain any form of permanence.

 _"Quitting is just like you…"_ Aya's words echoed out of nothingness, too accurate to even infuriate him—how pitiful.

That fucking mark he _tsk'd_ , too forced to be effective this time, quickly losing momentum in the downward motion that drew him to his knees, as if gravity too were against him, dragging him down to the level he belonged.

That FUCKING mark.

That, that **fucking** _mistake_.

That goddamn empty space.

" _Saruhiko…"_

He cringed. That sound.

That voice.

That only exception

… _.you're amazing!"_

that he never missed in so many words.

"Misaki."

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> haha the chapter with both characters, dialogue, and that wont drive you up the wall insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said before, this chapter is much more indicative of the story as a whole, don't expect to see the convoluted overly analytical english major nonsense that dominated the first. That was just my way of delving deeper into Fushimi's interpersonal complexities and getting it all out of the way because this fic isn't meant to be too long, had it been longer, those things would have been differently spaced.
> 
> I think you'll like this one 10x better, even though I love it as a whole, my style is just too abstract for a lot of people, so I get not wanting to read endless analysis, even I don't like to write purely that way. I love dynamic and banter and twisting character development reflective of original/authentic/accurate disposition. You'll find that all here :)
> 
> haha WELL unless you hate it, then my sincerest apologies.

**" _Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting," -Haruki Murakami_**

* * *

Why hadn't he waited, why hadn't he called, why without the swords of Damocles to divide them, why after reconnecting and reigniting that spark, had he hit the ground running? Now that his bones had all been broken beyond repair, betrayed by his own decisions, his defense rendered defective at best. No more than a ghost whose body had abandoned him, discrediting his very existence as necessary. Damned to wander, powerless, with no way to protect himself, exposing him in his simplest form, shuddering as he realized that for the first time in a long time he felt truly naked. Violated by the eyes around him, the piercing, pondering gazes that surfaced and speculated, but never belonged to the one he wanted to pry him back apart.

Why was he still just _sitting_ here?

He'd wasted too much time locked away in his head the night before, he was wasting too much time period, all these quotes. These useless sentiments that had no value if they weren't his own, simply filling his mouth with another's words, still drifting in the current of the previous evening's excerpt. Wondering how far downstream he'd gotten, how much more distance, whether he was steadily nearing a waterfall with rocky cliffs and a jagged undertow, there had to be one, or whether his punishment was never knowing. The consequence of never overturning and trying to fight it, arms and legs that remained ignorant without ever trying to go against the flow; that way of life had never bothered him, he could float forever, drifting on a bed of sea foam with coins atop his eyelids, it was swimming that scared him. He didn't know how. Not literally or metaphorically, but he wasn't so stupid as to invest this idealistic faith in the tides not to change.

Immune to the matters of men, nature moved on its own accord, not subject to such shallow concerns, nor resisting change so fiercely, it simply existed and adhered to what, over, it had no control. Unlike humans, such hopeless creatures, unlike himself, so quick to try and turn a blind eye to what he knew to be true. There was no such thing as permanence, transitioning wasn't _optional_ , and idling was only a temporary solution. But his heart was in his throat. This wasn't about wanting to, it's about having to. _This is growing up,_ he told himself, as if such repetition were truly necessary, _consistency isn't the same as stability,_ and getting older wasn't a choice. It just happened. _Life_ happens. _Loss and_ ** _getting_** _lost,_ he sighed deeply; in his hand, a partially dented pack, solid emerald green that melted into a disproportional triangle of white. Lifting the top, he flicked the container upward till a light brown and tan speckled cylinder popped up and gave way to a few inches of pristine white paper and about half a dozen toxic chemicals. Taking the fowl creation between his lips, he singed the tip until the tobacco beneath began to burn before setting it to the side as if he were lighting incense. Exhaling slowly, the menthol made him a bit dizzy, a thick cloud of smoke filling the room around him that, unlike his thoughts, dissipated and drifted into nothingness.

He didn't smoke, but he liked the smell. It reminded him of the King he abandoned, a man he both deeply admired and feared all at once, and of the King he'd clung to in his stead, the man who'd made more sense to him, a pillar of stability. It reminded him of Kusanagi, of Homra, it. It reminded him of a lot of things. But even when surrounded by memories, they too still went up in smoke, and he felt so terribly alone. Such a weak and degrading sensation, but perhaps it was time to let that go too. That false sense of bravado, that illusion that had been colliding with reality at such an alarming rate it had begun to form cracks far before he'd allowed them to form fissures. These jagged crevasses he found himself falling through whenever he forfeit the idea of floating, it made little difference. He was still going nowhere, except the most darkened caverns of his mind, he was going crazy.

Slipping up and failing to maintain even a cohesive structure, the forward motion he prided himself upon, the air of arrogance, whether false or just hardwired into his DNA, that had carried him through life unfailingly.  _My word doesn't carry much weight these days though, does it?_ He thought skeptically, still tinkering with the underlying desire to run so goddamn far away from this place, and agonizing over why he'd ever stayed. Having distanced himself from the only reason worth being here, caressing the dimly lit cell phone screen and reaching for the cigarettes he didn't smoke. _One won't kill me, and if it does then I guess I deserved it._ Fingering through the pack, indecisively grasping and releasing the Marlboro with his thumb and forefinger, the sound of explosions and furious skateboard wheels dancing like a guilt trip through his subconscious, the angry echo of his first name getting increasingly louder with every floor. Blue eyes went wayward, eclipsed by sight of fire and the involuntary contracting of his stomach muscles as he drew it to his lips regardless.

" _Mth-r fck-r,"_ he shook his right hand furiously, chucking the lighter at the wall, a searing pain pulsating through his finger after colliding with the metal enclosure attached to the small rigid wheel beside the top of the device, having been far too absorbed with the flickering of the flames licking upward. Amazed at the fact he had systematically refused, or perhaps simply disregarded, the lesson that if you're going to play with fire, you'd best be prepared to be burned. Dragging the cigarette coolly as if it were second nature, even more offset by the twisted sense of satisfaction, the magnificently terrifying elemental reaction of his flesh seething, disturbed by this sensation he'd grown to love. It was, by any and all means, completely fucked, he knew that, of  _course_ , he knew that, despite the cruel kinks he'd become somewhat infamous for, it's not like self-mutilation was anything to get off about. It just reminded him of.

_Tsk._

What's the point of narrating, there was no dramatic irony, the plot twists were not unbeknownst, they were a phone call away, six city blocks and a few back alleys by foot, and crudely framed picture on the dresser across the room. _Misaki._ It was that simple. It always had been. Clouding, obstructed by the smoke, he allowed his eyes to linger, a simple black frame with broken glass and a sun-stained photograph. Like looking at two ghosts, it was as unnerving as it was nostalgic. The slightest semblance of a smile beneath raven colored hair, eyebrows furrowed and sending scowling glances at the body behind him, but still dedicatedly holding onto the arms wrapped uncooperatively around his midsection. A mess of alternating fiery locks all tousled and too long framing a wide set grin, so broad his eyes were closed, head pressed into Saruhiko's like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. An ancient thing, warped and weathered from extensive familiarity, a polaroid Misaki's mom had popped in and captured one day after school when they were supposed to be doing homework.

_"You guys are too cute," she laughed, genuinely and sincere, waving the 3.5 x 4.2 snapshot as it dried, smiling at Misaki's ever-growing grin and Saruhiko's evident embarrassment, "joined at the hip," she observed them warmly, with those motherly eyes, tender and loving, the affection Yata often spoke of that Fushimi scarcely believed until experiencing it firsthand._

From joined at the hip to joined at the _slip_ , he rhymed oh-so-cleverly, of the tongue or sword, or something awful. But he was selfish, feeling that sense of shame like he had with Kusanagi, wondering how many ways it would break her heart to see him now. Not nearly as shy on the surface, sly, uncouth, and catlike, willing and ready to keep Misaki in his world no matter the cost. He'd already paid the ultimate price, so the rest was like money, it had no meaning and he had stacks of it, the debt between them may have been unfeasible, but he'd throw every last nickel and dime if it meant Misaki would look in his direction. Fushimi didn't care if it was spiteful, and for a long time, even concluded it was better that way, he'd retained his red, so in his mind, they could fight fire with fire and burn together.

But all that had changed, was still changing, there were no Kings, there had _been_ a conversation, albeit brief and abandoned by his own anxieties and sheer stubbornness; because in the end, it was him who'd been left to burn, to drown, and Misaki who had come to save him. He cringed, fist tightening and suffocating the cigarette as the paper compressed, crumpled, and cracked open, loose tobacco leaking into his palm and down his pant legs, half-lit cherry beginning to incinerate the newest sheet of paper set before him. A perfect hole, so symbolic it was sickening, the cliché and the quote intermingling in such a way that was only fit for fairy tails, but reflex compelled his palm forward. Not to savor the sensation, not to feel the burn, but to save what was smothering beneath it. As if this new found journaling activity was so significant he had to save it, the singular quote, on the singular sheet, of ordinary computer paper—cursive this time, but nothing so precious it couldn't be easily reproduced.

Taking the words in one at a time, now that his attention had been forcibly stolen and shifted, he gave a hard _TSK,_ grabbed the nearly empty cigarette pack and started over. Inhaling and exhaling more leisurely this time, balancing his head in his hand, unable to conclude whether it was idiotic that the words fit his prior contemplations more so than what had inevitably claimed his thoughts today, or whether it merely helped prompt the selection. Anna, Kusanagi, Totsuka, Homra, people, places, and the kindnesses he'd failed to reciprocate, the horrors he loathed to admit haunted him, the very real fears he harbored so well he'd forgotten they were real. Self-induced retrograde amnesia, self-fashioned, so naturally faulty, and somewhere deep inside his breast, there was a small, scared, six-year-old boy breaking down the walls and a twenty-year-old who couldn't rebuild them fast enough.

Scowling, cursing, and kicking back in his office chair, the momentum carried him as far as the other side of the room where he leapt to his feet, begrudgingly maneuvered his arms into the sleeves of his fall jacket, stuck another cigarette behind his ear, avoided the mirror at all costs, and slammed the front door.

_Stupid. Stupid. Saruhiko, couldn't let go, and it just goes to show, shuffling his feet in circles through trees, aimlessly in a courtyard, trying so very, very hard, figure eights collecting, in neat little rows. Pretending to have any **fucking**  idea that he actually knows, how to compose the proper sutures to possibly sew, together what's being torn apart by the undertow. Relentless, outgrown, so far from home, swayed by a bit of tobacco, so desperate to jump through a photograph he forgot where to go, poor, pathetic little Scorpio…_

"You lost?"

"N-," eyes had begun to narrow into condescending catlike slits until he found the pair across the street had beaten him to it.

"Seriously _Saru_ , go have your paranoid poetry pacing session in some other park," Yata yawned disinterestedly.

"Don't even _start._ " Fushimi, caught off guard, became temporarily flustered.

Raising an eyebrow knowingly, Yata advanced with a sarcastic bow, "Then would you kindly  _depart?_ "

Eyes reverting angrily to the side, the taller boy clenched his teeth.

"Or do you need a moment to _compart_ -mentalize, re- _organize_ , and systematically priori _-tize_ to get the perfect words in  _edgewise?_ "

"No," Fushimi snarled, "but I'm about ready to _pulverize_."

"Shame you didn't go with _compromise_ ," he leaned his body forward forcefully, switching literary devices, "Y'know, just one of those things I thought we struck over a _month_ ago."

This time the retort stuck in his throat, "I wasn't poetry ranting," he mumbled, "and I'm not here to see you, so get lost."

"You're pacing in figure eights," the shorter boy backed away, sighing and shaking his head, "and mouthing all the words…you do that you know?"

"Shut up," Fushimi snapped, more embarrassment than spite in his voice, "you do it too."

" _Yeah_ ," the other furrowed his eyebrows, "cause I'm _good_ at it."

"Words are wind."

"And those aren't yours."

Another sneer, feeling stupid and far too sensitive about his purely on a whim decision now that he'd been caught, compromised, and publicly humiliated.

"What do you want anyways," gold eyes were far from glistening, arms crossed, any attempt to be playful dying, if it was even there to begin with. "What are you _doing_ here, Fushimi?" he reiterated when he was met with silence.

"I heard you the first time, _Misaki,"_ he couldn't help slip, strangely offended by the use of his last name, "what's it to _you_ anyways?"

"You're hopeless," Yata grumbled, patience fluctuating, rubbing his temples, "first off, you're outside _my_ _house_ , second off," he took a step forward, "it's been _two months,_ and third," he swiped the cancerous cylinder from behind the taller boy's ear, "you're _smoking,_ " he accused, crumpling it in his fist, "what timeline are we on, _huh?_ Riddle me that."

"Current, obviously," Fushimi dismissed nonsensically, unable to stomach such stupid questions, ironically slow to catch the underlying meaning.

A reaction that made Yata quick to cock his brow, "So, currently, you're…?"

"Leaving."

Something hard collided with his back, causing Fushimi to fumble, not quite able to find his footing before he fell, the force of Yata's shoulders driving him to the ground, "Why didn't you _call_ ," he demanded with no discernible punctuation, lost somewhere in the wince of anger and sadness melting into his face, another punch landing directly in Fushimi's fist as he caught and steadied it, which only flustered the smaller boy more, "all you had to do was pick up the _phone_ ," his voice cracked, facial features fluctuating as the fist encircling his tightened, but not unkindly, and golden eyes fell sadly upon the contact, then the browning patch of grass beside them, "…I waited," he spoke softly, sadly, and ever too sensitive to keep the spite from transitioning, "right by the phone for  _weeks_."

Such unhindered honesty elicited a blank, contemplative sort of stare.

"Don't give me that sad look," Yata muttered, still unable to meet his eyes, "I'm the one who's supposed to be upset here."

Much to his dismay, resistance began to give way the second those seemingly simplistic words escaped the hushed voice, long awaited lips that parted without hesitance, eyes that could pry him apart without having to look. "I.." again, the words caught in his throat, this onslaught of stationary emotion Fushimi was forcing at bay, fumbling through the last time they'd spoken, his promise to say things in a way Misaki would understand.

Yata released an even deeper sigh, conflicted and heavy, but pulling the weight of the lankier body from the ground, "Do you wanna come inside, or not?" he asked quietly.

Fushimi followed without reply.

A few footfalls later until they were behind closed doors, the only door Fushimi had ever felt worthy of locking, shivers creeping up his spine as he stared around the space they used to share, and somehow it hurt more to know he'd kept it the same, loft uninhabited, his old dresser tucked into the corner. An eerily even silence and haunting atmospheric presence weighing down on his chest, mind and body moving separately, fingers having already reached out and twisted the latch.

A distinct sound that caused Yata to jump, turning defensively, not quite expecting a rather obvious look of embarrassment, by the other's standards, to flood Fushimi's face.

"Sorry," he looked down, cursing at the stupid expression he could feel contorting his features, "force of habit," a lame excuse after this many years.

The opposing pair of eyes furrowed, clearly pained, lips wavering as another fist caught Saru right in the gut, _"Idiot,"_ he murmured, affront melting into affection, arms sliding down the other's sides and through his arms, locking tightly behind his back.

Taken by surprise, Fushimi's hands rose automatically in resistance until the pressure transferred indistinguishably, smaller body clinging to him so tightly it was hard to breath, face pressed to his chest, "Yeah," he admitted inaudibly, returning the gesture, one hand resting against red hair, the other cradled around his side until he couldn't stomach it, "I missed you too," Fushimi's head fell against his shoulder, voice so hushed he almost wasn't sure he'd said it at all, both arms lifting the other's body into a formfitting embrace that had gone unnoticed by both parties. Not quite sexual, not quite platonic, not quite anything but four years worth of mileage all crammed together in the span of seconds as if they could simply will it all away.

" _Idiot,"_ Yata repeated.

After what had seemed like forever, and not nearly long enough, both bodies separated; awkwardness long since given to the extensive familiarity of empty space, not the distance or the one that had divided them, but the backwards understanding and ability to readjust that came with time. The simple fact this wasn't easy, and both of them could feel it. Misaki's expression still just as offended, and Saruhiko just as silent, knowing it was not up to the other to speak. To initiate the explanation or the apology he was under no obligation to give, having said as much already, the two months he'd spent foolishly waiting for someone as selfish as Fushimi to sacrifice the admission of fault. It was, however, _his fault._ His errors in need of humanity, his mistakes requiring the ultimate divinity of forgiveness, so he stared at the ground and let the words spill out.

"I fell," he began, in an uneducated string of innocence, "from your eyes, I mean, far from the sights that used to say such fascinated things." He was struggling, that much was obvious, evasive and unspecific, but trying his best. "I became something, _horrible_ ," his face scrunched towards the floor, "I wasn't amazing, just a pathetic excuse who couldn't save his own skin. I knew that," he concluded, "so did you. But that doesn't mean I was ready to hear you say it."

"You're not serious, are you?" the response was so blatant, " _That's_ why you didn't call,  **that's** what you were so afraid of?" he asked astonished, more indicative of idiocy than anger, but accusatory nonetheless, "That I wouldn't think you were _amazing_ anymore?"

The evident self-conscious scowling on the receiving end of what seemingly shirked any and all sensitivity towards what had been impossible for him to say ensuing an oh so characteristic retreat of unappreciatively parting lips, so Yata shut him up.

"I never _stopped_ thinking you were amazing."

Sure enough, it did the trick. Fushimi's dumbfounded, half-open mouth closing mid-motion.

"God, you're so thick," he shook his head, "it was the complete opposite actually if you must know." A sneering expression and folding arms annoyed with having to offer the reassurance of praise, but if it meant the other would keep responding, then he'd shower him with as much as he wanted. "Every time I saw you it was like you'd just become more and more incredible, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, you _did_ tell me to watch what you'd become," he slipped in spitefully.

"That was-."

"Honestly, it drove me a little crazy," he laughed sheepishly, hand extending upward toward his head like a conditioned response, "I couldn't keep up with you, but I always knew you were gonna be great," the boy added, almost shyly, having practiced and pulled apart these conclusions long before the other had even started, "there's just a unique...I don't know... _presence_ about you. Something someone said to me once. Kind of like a king..." he hesitated a second time, the terminology both recent and relevant, and not revealing everything, "but not the old kings, a different kind of king...like of, oh, I don't know, people or something," Yata searched for the proper expressions.

"Of _Men_ ," Saru substituted, but not unkindly.

"Yeah!" Yata's head snapped back into focus. "Exactly."

" I don't know about all that," the other replied, "it's not like I've ever done anything particularly spectacular, or to help others, certainly never led anybody, let alone set any example advisable of following."

"Then what is it you want? For me to tell you-you're stupid and a failure and won't ever, have never, amounted to anything?"

Fushimi's face flicked sideways, _tsking_ into the surroundings.

"Already fairly specific and thought through," he deflected.

"No, it's just written all over your face."

The other obviously too satisfied with the response.

"Stop smiling."

"Stop being so quick to tell me what I want to hear."

" _Masochist."_

"Enabler."

"Addict."

"Addiction," Fushimi smiled.

Misaki stuttered, taking on the slightest color, " _asshole._ "

The other shrugged, "Everybody's got em," he continued to imply.

"Explains why you're so full of shit," Yata remarked.

"And why you're losing yours," Fushimi countered.

" _Ugh_ , enough already, you win," his face scrunched up distastefully, "are you allergic to being straightforward or something?"

"Too crooked, I guess," blue eyes entertained mischievously, "are you so immune to my charm all of a sudden?"

" _Pft_ , charm, that's _one_ way of putting it," the other boy dismissed.

"Giving into it could be another," an unfazed response continued offering, caught up in the playful banter that was causing the other to grow red in the face.

"I hate you," he mumbled.

"But more than anybody else right?" Saruhiko chipped, "If so, then that's fine."

"And if I say no?"

"I'd make it so you had no other choice, of course," the other concluded simply. "I'm still not very fond of coming in second, you know."

The smaller boy laughed dismissively, "like you've ever been second to _anyone_ , idiot."

 _Not even your precious Mikoto?_ Is the aftertaste the statement left on his tongue, but he was enjoying how effortlessly the conversation fell into place, knowing those five words would be sufficient enough to stop it dead in its tracks. "How do you mean?" he asked instead.

"Like you don't already know."

"Same as I'd rather hear you say it."

"You really are a sick one, Saru," Yata shook his head, unable to fathom what satisfaction the other received from such roundabout tactics, but clearly not beneath being as shameless as to prompt the desired response in so many words. Sighing, he submitted, "It means unlike me, you've never come second," something more hurtful than gratifying in the way he gave it no extra thought, "and unlike _you_ , I've never put anything ahead of you. You came first, always have, probably always will, it's as stupid as that."

"Don't you mean simple?"

"No, stupid."

"How is putting somebody else first, stupid?"

"Did those words really just come out of your mouth?" he questioned, a queer look in his eyes, "you practically wrote the book, y'know, I just read the back flap."

"So, in other words, you haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," the other snapped, "don't tell me what does and doesn't come first to me, you were always so quick to decide."

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" he barked, "So suddenly it's my fault you clearly wanted to be somewhere, _anywhere_ , else than with me?" Speech cutting off between clenched teeth, bottom lip pulling between them to keep from crying or caving under the pressure of something so difficult.

And this time Fushimi couldn't restrain himself, "Don't act like I gave _you_ up for the next best thing to catch your eye," his arms folded tightly across his chest, "at least have the decency to realize it."

"Realize _what_ ," Yata spewed, "that you'd rather blame anyone, but yourself?"

Then an empty, awful extending of a sarcastic sigh, "ever the loyal subject, aren't you?"

"That, that's not the same thing," he fell short of infuriated, some evidence of shame clouding and keeping his responses light.

"Maybe not to you."

"Don't act like nothing else ever caught your eye," he posed quietly, "after all, you caught  _everyone_ else's."

He cocked his head but said nothing. Neither of them strong enough for direct confrontation, witty banter lapsing in place of deeper significances they were clearly more compelled, but unable, to say. Yata's presence having gone much colder, more accusatory, Fushimi having only a few good ideas what could be so recent as to rub him in such a way it felt wrong to both of them. Sighing and creating tick marks in his head, tallying up the possible causes, he sat back and waited for one of them to turn up as more than a scuff. Surprised by how simple minded and unsuspecting the motivation behind this sudden show of insecurity began stemming, the root of which he couldn't imagine being so significant when he'd no sooner forgotten it altogether himself; but clearly, the implied meaning was valued much more sensitively to some than others.

Still no closer to understanding what prompted this indirect comparison, but ready to stifle it for both of their sakes, if not for the resultant stupidity of Misaki's alone. The occasional glances growing more frequent in his peripherals, still amazed by the thought something so short lived would ever hold so much sway, hands wringing with the accumulation of nerves. Blue eyes purposely pretending not see. The sort of shy, personal space the other required to speak.

Beginning to pick at his cuticles out of strategic disinterest.

"So," he began, awkwardly swinging his legs against the bed where they'd sat in drawn out silence, "that Douhan girl," he brought them cautiously up into his chest, "she was—"

"Old," Fushimi filled in before Yata could finish, assessing his fingertips, "She was pretty old to have been as effective as she was, I was surprised."

" _Old?_ She was? Like seriously?" the other asked offhandedly, "I would never have guessed," the Rosacea reddening of his cheekbones against already fiery hair confirming that this was headed in the direction Fushimi soon suspected. "I was going to say really _pretty_ ," he blushed.

Twenty years old and still couldn't give an indirect compliment about a female without every part of him flustering. A reaction very specific to Misaki, that even among his own varied expressions, was by far the most distinctively different, the one that truly defied all expectancy. The stark contrast to his otherwise uninhibited character, curious and compelling, and undeniably cultivating. The sort of shyness you root for in movies because there was just something so admirably genuine about it that drew you in to get a closer look. Ultimately unable to take your eyes away from something so easy to get lost in, too refreshing to find anything less than desirable. A timelessly romanticized and very rare modesty uncommon for nearly anyone in this day and age, let alone a healthy twenty year old boy.

"You think so?" Fushimi redirected unfamiliarly with a question, that rather than rhetorical, awaited a response, an opinion that was not his own. This rare chance to see these features set in Misaki's face, even more uncustomary for him to provoke, but secretly the fondest and most familiar of. The way each facial muscle seemed to think on its own, frantic, unfinished features casting the forthcoming failure to maintain such an inaccurate facade. Able to admire them for a change rather than insult them from afar, having indeed forgotten how much more captivating the view from the front row was in comparison to the distance that no memory had ever been able to remedy.

"Well, I wouldn't have bothered to say so if I didn't," the other pointed out obviously.

But suddenly having closed it on their own accord, that distance, the nostalgia lapped and pooled beneath their feet as they dipped them into the shallow end of something that was neither hot nor cold, the currents of pleasure and sadness swirling through the spaces between their toes and discoloring the fabric around their ankles. Dampened pant legs the first and the lightest of the weights that pushed and pulled the currents of irrecoverable condition. Named such for several reasons, the inferable, and the inflicting. A necessary understanding requiring the most elementary knowledge that it was both a time which could never be taken and one in which you could easily lose yourself.

" _Huh_ , weird," Fushimi continued, thinking in terms of something so much farther, and yet so much closer than the idea of her face, features against which she hardly paled in comparison, " I didn't think she was anything special."

It wasn't holding your breath under or your head above, but a balancing act that required the simultaneous alignment of both. A testament to determine whether or not they could stay in sync as they sank.

But the tide was too calm for Fushimi to really care right now, the surface growing more still and reflective with every breath he drew. This unfamiliar ease that if he were more ignorant he would have pretended nothing had ever changed. That the fractured letters and incomplete pieces of promises they'd never made concrete enough weren't swirling listlessly atop the glassy surface like alphabet soup. An equally unparalleled opportunity to write anything they wanted, to make the most of the wistful ambiance.

" _Liar_ ," Misaki kicked him playfully when he retained that stationary, contemplative posture. "You _almost_ got better at playing things off, but I betcha' you were just thinking about her now."

"Not really," he repeated.

"So really at least?" he phrased with a funny grin, to which Saru _tsk'd_ and corrected.

"Not at all."

"Hmm," Yata contemplated aloud, "what else besides a **_beautiful_** lady would have put that  _ridiculous_ grin on your face?" he provoked, such an opposite attitude than before, cheeky expression encircling the confusion that formatted the opposing features.

Instantaneously falling for Yata's antics, still a little rusty when it came to the other's effortless skill to redirect, several fingers rose self consciously to cover his lips. "Was I?" he asked, almost quickly, and just as quickly filling with the stupidity that he actually needed to _check_ as he swatted the other away.

Pure, resplendent laughter compelling the other backwards with joy, "That face is every bit as priceless as I remember," he exclaimed, "seriously, Saru, you never disappoint!"

To that, Fushimi knew his face had formed a fraction of surprise, sternly looking downward, _0 and 2_ already.

However Yata knew better than to tease him more than twice, because when it came to Saruhiko, it was three strikes, you're shut out. And he was certain they'd already reset the count at least once by total fluke, so he couldn't very well forsake the rarity of an error that wasn't likely to repeat itself.

"You _were_ smiling though," the smaller boy redirected, a purposely softened intonation taking the statement under the speculation of a half smile, "for a second, at least,  _somewhere_ in whatever thoughts just took over that overactive brain of yours."

However, those thoughts weren't the sort he was going to share, not aloud, not willingly, and not within such close proximity.

"Yeah, yeah," he gently flicked his wrist.

"It's kind of funny though." Misaki leaned back until the ceiling met his gaze, "I don't remember the last time I actually saw you smile."

"I _smile_ ," Fushimi protested too defensively.

The other's head lifted from where both arms had crossed behind it for added support, the signature narrowing of know it all- _don't try selling me that shit_ —eyes encasing him; perhaps not the prettiest of phrasing, but the words he thought fit the reaction perfectly.

His only admission of inaccuracy playing out as expected. "I smile, a _little_."

"A little _creepily_ too," Yata's eyes closed, having reverted back to his original position.

Mouth pulling to the side with the absence of a _tsk,_ you could practically see the cogs in his head turning themselves over for a more flattering way to face what he recognized without fault; knowing the exact high-strung, crazed, blood lusted upward curling that he was equally un-fond of. "Blame genetics," he kidded, the closest to playful he was going to get, for now, requiring time to readjust after the original atmosphere had been thrown.

"And here I was thinking you were just  _naturally selected_ for everything."

Fushimi scowled, "Don't be an idiot, I was born the same as you—care for me to refresh your memory on the process?" a sly, coding smile tipped back and to the side to catch the on cue coloration. Observing the adaptive ability to play certain embarrassment with sarcasm and wordplay had not only rubbed off on him but remained an ever enhancing skill.

"Storks, fairies, and petri-dishes? Right?" he grinned, both eyes still protected behind cautious lids as he weighed the benefits and misgivings of opening his mouth. "So, you really don't think she's pretty?"

"Don't?" Saruhiko effortlessly caught the implied meaning of differentiating tenses that took Yata anywhere from ten seconds to ten minutes too long, "and you're absolutely sure it wasn't " _didn't"_ you wanted to go with?"

Eyebrows furrowing, the smaller frame flung itself forward, back into an upright position with a jaunty level of grace and accuracy Fushimi found queer and confusing. Having secretly attempted once, and that was the entire story.

"Don't go all mind games on me right off the bat, _Foosh_ ," Yata employed the horrendously coined nickname that always caused alternating shades of blue to narrow unappreciatively.

"It's called, **_grammar_** _, Ya—"_ he frowned and trailed away with the failure to manipulate the other's name. Moving forward without pause, "Don't vs Didn't," he cleared his throat, "is a distinction of time and context, you may recall them as _tenses_."

"I know what _tenses_ are, Saru, I might be dense, but I'm not _retarded_."

The other boy grinned at the impertinence of the other's defiant pouting. "Then you should have no trouble connecting the dots," he initiated in that open-ended, upper handed way of speaking that was so like him.

Yata rolled into him, "Just explain it already," he shoved the tall, slender body sideways, "since it's so _obvious_ you're dying to."

"Dying is a tad extreme," he readjusted his glasses, "but if you'd said _didn't_ —it would've merely been a question of the set time frame I spent with her. _Fleeting_ , **past** **tense** ," he strung together in descending cogency, revealing the root by entangling whatever was seemingly so amusing in oppositional ascent, "Whereas _don't_ , is present, and present extends past an intermediary period into an ongoing and otherwise specified range."

Wide, golden brown eyes stared back in equal parts fascination and frustration. " _Meaning?_ "

"You tell me," Fushimi leaned back coyly, but not cruelly like Yata had grown forcibly accustomed to, sheer child-like curiosity in the question and cocking of his head, "would that bother you, Misaki?"

Taking notice but not, nor revealing, offense to the use of his first name, Yata intuitively caught on that there was now some underlying meaning for Fushimi, alternative or ulterior, he wasn't confident enough to cater to try and fit either. Growing quiet and contemplative, taking an unusually and unexpectedly complex question to heart. Trying to decipher and decide what the taller boy meant by it before possibly knowing what it meant to _him_. Initially, he'd extended the confirmation that he'd not found her to be anything special, but only answered "old" and "not really" to everything else. Something bothersome in answers that were indirect and unspecific. Besides, even _he_ knew older didn't necessarily mean _bad_ , in fact, a lot of guys found that experience far more desirable, _but Fushimi said OLD, not old_ ** _ER_** _,_ Yata stuck his tongue between his lips in deep contemplation, unaware of the equally amused and increasingly pleased Fushimi watching him quite closely.

Subtle, doubtful waverings of worrying rising and falling with the time it had— _was—_ taking; albeit restraining his impatience because he could see—although no fathomable structure or coordinating paths or parallels—that the other boy had indeed matured. Rationalizing and deducing the sway or implementations of his answers. Although Fushimi had shamelessly done it more so to _tease_ than to extract any certain truth, to provoke the expressions he'd only entertained on the backs of his eyelids when his REM cycles rewarded him with the rare occurrence of dreams. So used to the nightmares and guilt that he was getting drunk off the live action movie unfolding in real time.

Puzzled, Yata was still stuck, hoping the flippancy for his limited patience hadn't expired, especially when he was caught in the over analysis he knew would drive the other crazy with the contrasting ease and effortless ability to respond in a quick and efficient manner. But either he was getting ready to switch speeds, or Munakata had truly tamed the stray dog into an obedient house pet—a laughable image he decided would never be mentioned aloud in Fushimi's presence. _Okay_ , another deep breath, helplessly hung up on this girl, _woman_ , he corrected, feeling hot with something almost akin to nerves, a sort of intimidation towards this stranger. She was most certainly within the _8-10_ ranking as far as classifications for natural beauty go, Yata admitted, wore a rather _revealing_ maid outfit as if it were an everyday item in her closet, could—or USED to—walk through walls, and fought with her choice weapon of twin blades.

In other words, desirable by default, but he'd feel stupid claiming something so natural and involuntary as a hindrance, because what would _that_ say about him; but, on the other hand, she seemed to complement Fushimi in an undeniable and almost uncannily scripted sense he found increasingly irritating. From weaponry to this equality in fashionability when it came to both appearance and skill that unintentionally made him feel underdressed and under-qualified. Inadequate and incompatible at best, inferior and so laughably out of his league at worst; and it dawned on him, in the pitfalls of infuriation and deeply rooted offense sinking in his stomach, that he didn't need any more time to think it over. It was already painstakingly obvious. Silently, he turned onto his side—Fushimi standing somewhere out of sight.

"Yeah," otherwise profound vocals finally professed, tapering between soft and more lightly labored breathing, "I think if she'd been the reason you smiled, I'd be a little upset," he admitted, "if she'd been the reason for the _way_ you smiled, _very_ upset…and—"

Never expecting such an exhaustive weight to accompany the simplicity of such honest answers, Fushimi's features all softened in the absence of the other's, clearly a mutual strategy, eyes unintentionally tracing the smaller frame whose shoulders now tensed visibly, "—if anything had happened…between the two of you, I..." his voice cut off completely.

Another one of those processes that came back as if his long term memory had a specific folder filed away for these very occasions. It was typically something Yata did when he was trying not to cry, or when he was already crying too hard, _the abdomen next,_ he thought, precise and calculating like a surgeon asking for the proper scalpels, _first clench._ Less than three was a sign he'd already started, three to five was usually an invalidated attempt to suppress the inevitable, and five or more was silence. No tears, just something so soft it was insufferable, the kind of unanticipated pain you cannot locate and therefore cannot cry for. Even if your mind can draw the path from  _A_ to _B_ to _C_ , the emotion feels hollow, unnatural, and belonging to a body that's not your own—heart and head in a total disconnect—tear ducts never receiving their proper triggers, and your stomach left to try and suppress the unprecedented pain all by itself. Folding the body like a stowaway appliance with a defective latch, forced instead to shake and contort like cords into a cable that couldn't be broken, that couldn't transmute the proper sounds.

 _Three_ , Fushimi counted. Connected and unable to channel anything into translation, the agony became airborne and infectious. His own breathing becoming incrementally more difficult, the immeasurable weight in his chest, the guilt that tangled throughout his solar plexus. Like the world was transposing their emotional states in perfect sync with a set of internal factors they'd left amidst an airport terminal, whether arrival or departure. The emotional baggage they couldn't stop stumbling over, abandoning it altogether in order to board that flight. To make it to their seats. To take them anywhere else, any distance if it was from where they were in that moment. But baggage claim wasn't a babysitting service, not responsible for the luggage you couldn't carry on, and god knows where this set had come from.

How many bags over how many years amounting—how long it'd been missing for. What skeletons, what bodies, what imperceivable horrors and secrets were about to fall without physical form. _Four,_ his eyes shifted. If they would ever learn to navigate or whether they'd trip all over them again.  _Legs bent at the knee, drawn to the stomach, not yet the chest—one slightly higher than the other,_ his own muscles tensed and strained with forward motion as he lifted one foot and took a preemptive step. And about as automatically as he'd outlined the stages in his mind, no more than moments passed before they followed suit. Like Fushimi was guiding his body through the technical jargon so that his mind could sort through what he'd never, no matter how observant, truly grasp; walking in constant, unbroken strides now, footsteps inaudible, _arms up, overhead, elbows bent, fists pressed like headphones trying to cancel out internal noise, forearms shielding the rest._ Standing not even a fraction, but far enough, his motion ceased.

_Five._

And suddenly he was hesitating, frozen, his own mental networking screaming to him,

THE FLESH IS WEAK. THE FLESH IS WEAK.

And all he wanted to do was shout back, _THAT'S NOT EVEN THE RIGHT CONTEXT._

 _THIS ISN'T FUCKING BIBLE STUDY. WE ARE NOWHERE_ **NEAR** _GETHSEMANE, SO GET_ **_OUT_ ** _OF MY WAY._

Too Darwinian, too feral to care that this argument was not only hypothetical, but taking place in his own head—some inward admission of wanting to scream at himself at the top of his lungs he'd been holding back—to shout at his own internal warning that, had he not been so desperately hell-bent, he would have realized his logic was not at fault, nor subject to flaw. He'd simply put, just chosen to ignore it. _Six_ , now his heart was starting to beat faster, such an unfamiliar palpitating, the friend in front of him becoming such a contradictory presence. The original and conditioned response causing Fushimi's psyche to split in two—torn between such an unhindered, human-like ability to let go, and the mechanical insensitivity of his own design arguing like a devil and angel on his shoulder, but with machine guns in his head.

The rare revival of a heart that once had been pure and full of hope growing ten sizes so suddenly, like the Grinch on Christmas, so expansive that the internal hard drive around it was cracking, screws pulling loose, dismounting in the worst agony while microscopic mechanisms were quick to make the proper repairs, internal security on high alert. A voice that whispered wickedly in his ear, inquiring why he was still bothering, what notion of progress did he see unfolding before him? Instructing him to take a good hard look at what he'd already done with a simple question and showing up in the first place, so defective that he'd curled the most optimistic intensity into a ball on the bed without expending any effort, and in record time.

 _You think THIS is bad,_ the voice laughed, _what the hell do you think this room looked like the FIRST time you left?_ An already heavily, already obsessively contemplated nightmare worsening with the visual accompaniment. Wondering how the hell the day had come down to _this_. At the same time, another voice interjected with the simple, sharp, and extremely painful piercing of his heart. _"Is this who I turn into?"_ it echoed pitifully, the disapproving intonation of his younger self thoroughly unimpressed. _"You killed me so you could become_ **this, _this_** _is what I stabbed my best friend in the back for?"_

The sound of himself, although aware it was merely his conscience projecting itself, felt as real as the JUNGLE induced hallucinations he'd once been inflicted with, so insupportable to realize it wasn't just other people he should have been afraid of failing. Clenching the radiating pangs in his chest, and understanding, with all due respect, that the person he'd failed most was himself.

" _Tsk."_ So strange to be on the receiving end of his own singularly effective, signature, syllable habit of demeaning anything from idle tasks to idiotic persons. The first time he understood how horrible it must— _"Would you stop all that? It's embarrassing. You know, maybe if you stopped thinking about yourself so damn much then it wouldn't have to hurt so bad._ **MAYBE** _, if you'd stop skipping out and running headfirst into the fire when the solutions been_ ** _right in front of you_** _, then you wouldn't have to watch it all burn to the ground."_

Burn to the ground, the sort of phrase that brought a lot to the surface: his skin, his science fair project, Mikoto Suoh, cigarette smoke, the price of silence, the fate of bridges.

 _"Sorry, let me rephrase,"_ the voice said annoyed, as if his future self were too stupid to possibly understand, and to a certain extent, not wrong. _"Far be it for you to look any farther than your own face,"_ it spat, " _I'm talking about OUR_ _best friend. Our_ **ONLY**  friend _. Or did you forget that part already? Are you really so successful at pretending it stopped meaning everything, or did you kill_ **yourself,** _too, somewhere along the way? Did you come here just to watch Misaki cry? Because you're_ ** _delusional_** _if you think for a second that the same rules still apply,"_ the intonation ate away at his so called intellect, _"if you seriously think there's such a thing as suffering in silence when_ **you're** _involved. How many times are you going to tear him apart before it's enough?"_ the inflection was heartbroken, hateful, and hard to ignore, " _Because I_ **hate you** _for that."_

 _"For making Misaki cry over something as ugly as you. Or maybe you've started to enjoy it,"_ he spoke dryly, personal spite abandoning all subtlety, _"maybe I should start calling you_ **Niki** _instead, you're certainly starting to look an awful lot like him these days. Ever think it's not by coincidence?"_ Those words hit harder than a fatal verse. _"That was_ ** _seven_** _, by the way,"_ the voice finalized, dissipating back into the soundless figment of an imagination prone to turning against itself.

In reality, only seconds having gone by between the pauses, the idea that even his own subconscious was starting to compare him so openly to _that_ man made Fushimi want to die on the spot. But the culpability encasing him as he swallowed all matters of pride and slid next to his friend was far worse. The boy who had probably broken his bones ten times over for him and then bounced right back like it didn't hurt; but there was hardly anything you could hide while you were living with someone, the spectrum of yellow, blue, and purple blurring into the various stages of healing, blackish and beyond his control to take notice while changing, or exchanging the bath. The poorly hidden remnants of bandages, braces, and gauze—over the counter pain relievers, antiseptics, and scar removal ointments—and of course, the debt collection letters Fushimi had found by accident beneath the silverware tray in a random kitchen drawer, hundreds, even thousands of dollars accumulating with every notice.

Taking a quick picture of dates and amounts before placing them back where he'd found them, frequently making it a point to check back whenever the other sustained injuries beyond the inevitability of alternate care; simply making the calls himself, impersonating his friend, already knowing all the pertinent information offhand anyways. Besides, supporting the payments seemed like the very least he could contribute after Yata had been so adamant about the cooking and the cleaning, not that Fushimi was about to volunteer. But to men, matters of money, finance, and being able to take care of themselves were all sensitive areas that directly wounded their pride when proven incapable, not that incapability was deemed a fault here, moreover just a position he had more means by which to cover. The more rambunctious boy was already always freaking out about their rent situation as it was, but to know Saruhiko had paid his  ** _medical bills_**? It wasn't something that needed to be said; in his mind, Yata took care of him on much more than any expected scale.

From catering to satisfy his most unusual, most unrefined palette, to cleaning up his continuous stream of strewn about messes, to putting him to bed whenever he'd pushed himself to the point of passing out where ever his latest project was stationed. Going as far as to carrying Saru, surprisingly light for someone so tall, one night, but misstepping somewhere half way up to the loft, eyes widening and trying to push the detachable ladder back towards the frame the same time Fushimi's eyes had fluttered open in sync. Immediately defying the pressure by pulling in the opposing direction, disoriented and unaware as to why he was suspended in the air, pressed up against someone else's body, and gravity did all the rest. Perhaps, despite his best efforts and intentions, he'd always been dragging the other boy down with him.

Staring down at the body curled so protectively into itself atop the bed, he was certain that Yata had felt the shifting weight of his knees against the mattress, pressing softly, as he assessed the other's frame. Wondering how much damage he'd really caused, which selectively shitty words or accurately thrown daggers had cut into him—physically or otherwise—and just how deep the wounds ran. Crawling over on all fours until they were scarcely centimeters apart, never acknowledging the additional presence as Fushimi's eyes became dim and downcast towards the boy who had grown into a man practically overnight without him ever realizing. All the time they had lost, all the moments he'd missed when he should have been by his side to share them. Even the slightest shifts in auditory range revealing masterfully concealed sounds of tears seeping into the sheets, the hand against the bed abandoning the space against his ear for the one between his teeth, biting down simultaneously on fabric and skin to stagger and stunt and nullify the sounds that Fushimi, of all people, didn't need to hear to know exactly what they were.

It didn't make it any less embarrassing though, nobody wanted witnesses when it came to something this vulnerable and exposing, he knew that better than most may have wanted to believe; and despite the interjections from his inner self, he still wasn't sure what he'd said to set such sadness in motion, having put in so much extra effort. But there it was. _Eight._ Frowning to the point he revealed features even he himself seldom saw. Eyes involuntarily giving into the first stages of welling. Just enough to paint them wet and watery and reddening at the edges, blue irises magnifying all the vicarious hurting that, unbeknownst, had been much more direct. The mark against his collarbone burning heatedly, pulsating heavy and thick and full of blood that hadn't circulated through him in so long.

Completely pushing aside his personal fear and longstanding discomfort towards any form of contact as his upper body lifted, angling sideways and aligning against a back that fell into the curves of his chest like an adjacent puzzle piece, such a perfect fit. Knowing Yata would never willingly surrender to the exposure as his fingers hesitated fearfully in their reach. The consequence of colliding with the smaller boy's sides so electrifying as they traced the fabric with just enough pressure to know they were there. Thinking back to the quote from the night before, of those people, that river, that very real current that had caused the continental drift between them all these years, all five fingers set into such delicate caressing and met by the involuntary response of shivers, both reactions emanating so shyly and for a moment, uncertain, slowly, so very slowly, savoring the vanishing proximity.

Palm easing gently and reassuringly down the length of sculpted shoulder blades and tensing muscles, stopping once he'd reached the lowest point of his midsection, just a fraction from his hips; up and over the flawless curve, prying through the space where the other's forearm had formed a blockade. It was the least he could do, trying to lighten the burden of something so clearly god awful and heavy. Abandoning caution and pushing up along Yata's stomach until he was cradling the body that shook more profusely—such foreign emotions Fushimi had never mastered, whether receiving, reciprocating, or remedying—but his arm tightened and pulled closer. And closer, closing his eyes. His own body conforming to his friend completely, knees bending in complimentary angels and tucking beneath the opposing pair, formfitting until the souls of Yata's feet were resting atop his, distracted and distressed as the emblematical water rose all around them.

Neck craning forward against deep auburn locks and alternating shades of orange, the smell of cologne mixing with subtle traces of menthol and memories that were as intangible as they were intoxicating, too deeply embedded in his sensory to liken to description. Not caring about prying anything apart or putting it back together anymore, the subtle brushing of his lips as he spoke against the back of his neck, _"Misaki,"_ exhaling inaudibly. Each breath a wave of heat and strain evaporating in the intimacy of a whisper, sensual and spine-tingling the way he drew them out.

The baiting collision no longer coincidental, Fushimi pleading guilty to how badly he wanted to savor it, this closeness, this warmth that for almost half his life had only been an arm's length away. The immediate ease and comfort of a body that felt different and yet the same, perhaps a little a taller, most definitely more defined—their symbiosis still unchanging, but the silence maddening. The sniffling and subtle clenching that contracted and pushed back against him with each and every suppressed attempt to remain calm and in control of circumstances he could never hope to quell, that Fushimi wouldn't allow him to expel at the expense of how hard it had been for him to get this far, his arm curling across the conflict of emotion in the other's chest. Protectively steadying the involuntary expanding and contracting that kept pulling him away, a delicate but selfish way to keep him from initiating any further avoidance.

"Misaki, _please_ ," he whispered again, voice cracking beneath the sentiment.

But when it elicited no response, Fushimi allowed a fraction of distance, as not to suffocate someone who was hardly able to breathe as it was.

"I'm sorry." Such unfamiliar words to hear from Saruhiko's voice. "I was only teasing. I was just tryi—" his teeth clenched involuntarily and the other could hear the swallowed _tsk_ he'd so forcibly self-internalized for the sake of a strength that was steadily losing conviction. Understanding every word was genuine, too difficult to find the right ones in such a short span causing him to choke, the fragile features Misaki began to read like brail as they pressed against his back. The nervous embarrassment that started to tremble ever so slightly, the involuntarily human ability to be weak and vulnerable that he knew Fushimi hated more than anything.

"I was just trying to be _normal._ Trying not to say anything too serious," such fearful hesitance, "because I'm still not sure _how_ ," the unanticipated sensation of Saruhiko pulling into something other than himself for support, "I just wanted to see you smile," burrowing his head somewhere deep into the space between Yata's shoulder blades, "that's all I've ever wanted," fingers flinched and froze with embarrassment and unfamiliar honesty, "to be able to be this close to you without anything in-between acting as an excuse. So sick of purposely picking fights to justify being near you." Then a conflicted pause that pushed the words around in his mouth, as if to get a taste for how they were about to sound. "But I couldn't even do _that_ without making you cry," burying his face so deeply it pushed the other forward, the heart wrenching folding a product of his own this time, such a masterminded floodgate finally starting to fail him. "I hate it when you cry. I hate that I'm what _makes_ you cry," something small and wet slipping down his cheek, "because _you're_ what makes me smile like that, no one else."

And this time there was a smaller hand steadily wrapping around the wrist that still hung over his body, pulling it towards him with both hands. "I never wanted to share you," he admitted in a hitched whisper, holding Fushimi's hand against his face, "and then you were gone."

"And you just watched," he phrased unfairly.

_Nine._

"I _tried_ to stop you."

"You screamed at me."

Yata pulled away, "You left me."

"Because you replaced me," Fushimi let slip, several tears escaping more fluidly.

"How can you say that?" the offense was obvious, struggling to turn around to face his accuser.

An attempt Fushimi quickly thwarted, fastening his grip, "How can you deny it?"

Yata stiffened, then silence. "Are you crying?"

The liquescence had steadily overwhelmed and overflowed into the fabric.

"You know I hate stupid questions."

"About as much as you love lying," he wrestled and wriggled free.

Pale appendages rose to cover his face, ashamed, "Don't look at me." Unwilling to expose such uncharacteristic weakness to the watermarks that were facing him now, an opposing pair of hands pushing past the futile attempt without any real effort.

"Liar," he laughed, all stuffy and teary eyed.

"It's pathetic," he cringed, eyes closed and internally infuriated with himself.

Smaller fingers found their way awkwardly to the sides of a face he was almost too afraid to hold, "Or maybe it's what you should've done in the first place," he offered quietly, erasing the streaks and stains with his thumb.

"And add insult to injury?" Fushimi laughed crossly, "no thanks."

"I already told you, I'm not as smart as you, you have to say it in a way I can understand it," he reiterated, "you have to say it until you  _make_ me understand."

"I _did_ though," Fushimi insisted.

Yata took notice of the hand against the breast of a black sweatshirt, clenching a very specific space.

"No," he gently intervened, pushing his palm over the insignia, "you did everything possible so you didn't have to."

And with that, his face tightened, all scrunched up as the tide swept him under the wave of emotion cresting and crashing in the most involuntary release. Nothing perfuse, not nearly enough to truly exonerate all that constituted the slow, steady stream, but enough at least. Enough to confuse and upset the atmosphere around them, tension rising thickly into the air as nothing about the situation started making any sense. Conversation jumping from _A_ to _Z_ to _LMNOP_ with no discernible direction or continuity—too distracted by the short but long overdue snippets of dialogue eroding and depositing through cognitive channels of the mind. Playing their emotions false, or perhaps just too perfectly as the moment began meandering so absolutely fucked and too good to be true. That, or this was simply the result of laying chest to chest with your childhood friend when you had four years of bad blood and three more of longstanding personal history wedged between you. The things they'd been too childish and immature to vocalize that maturation was trying to piece back together with forgotten emotions from the past.

To be upfront about it, Yata hadn't the faintest clue where any of this was going, or where he'd allow it to be taken. Or why he had to say all those stupid things at the beginning, _middle and end_ , he thought with an embarrassed inward sigh. If only he hadn't opened his big, stupid mouth and run himself headfirst into brick-walls—mentioning Douhan was the dumbest shit he'd ever done. Hating his very real curiosity and inability to keep the words from spilling out. Mortified by the words that slipped off his tongue, and the fact his feelings were exposed with unintentionally  _too_ much feeling, then given to the stillness and indirect sense of responding gestures.

Not digging too deeply for deeper meanings or implicating admissions was unlike Fushimi, and so the situation became increasingly unclear. Never quite able to stomach the stillness around them during the time Saruhiko spent locked away inside his own head. Information he was never privy to, and although he had always been drawn to that silent brilliance, he'd also bent and buckled beneath it. And thus found himself at an anticipated but unexpectedly timed disadvantage, a little too fond and familiarizing of the impressions against his body and the way they were starting to make him feel. Taking on the slightest color when he realized he'd put himself, or perhaps the both of them, in a far more complicated position. Hazardous, dangerous, troublesome? He was never good with proper adjectives. Nothing about any of this recognizable, no matter how inconceivably nostalgic, there were a few faces Fushimi seldom wore, and Yata realized, some he'd never even seen. The one in front of him, held unwillingly but unresisting in the palm of his hand one of them. The unfamiliar liquid a form of emotion that had him at an even greater loss for words than usual. Dumbfounded but deeply invested, surrendering the entire ebb and flow to Saru's discretion.

It seemed like Fushimi had a lot more to say than he did, or cared to, and so he gave him to the silence that ciphered and sorted through his thoughts, and slowly but surely, Fushimi opened his eyes. Blurry and exhausted, giving into the embarrassment, the insecure, self conscious gaze that met refractions of gold reflecting upon his face. The other so steadfast and submissive that he started to unravel the long list of things "too serious" he never intended to say. Thinking to the receding of time, the regrets he didn't want to amount to anything more than they already had.

Opening his mouth, closing it, hesitating, and finally saying something Yata had not expected to hear. "I want to see Totsuka," his lips wrinkled into a sorrowful attempt to smile, covering the appendage against his chest before reciprocating the gesture.

Without further elaboration, Yata took his hand and began to pull, "Let's go."

Deep set shades of amethyst and softening tangerine hues shifted across the skyline until the horizon was enveloped in darkness. A thick blanket of black, like a cloak, a blessing, and a curse, both a concealment and an ill timed omen of death. Several tombstones erected in a forest clearing with no epitaphs or names, just the crude chemical reaction of fire combusting and having long ago curved and curled into respective crests. Charred vignettes of ash and smoke left behind by flames that had burnt out. Each one similar, but distinct to its owner, a ritualistic burial right only Homra members would be able to make sense of.

The first belonged to the previous Red King, the second, Totsuka, and the third was Mikoto's, and the first place Fushimi knew Yata's eyes were drawn to. Clenching his fist, but never forgetting why he was here. " _You idiot_ ," he found himself sliding against the ground, knees pressed into the earth, holding one side of the gravestone that felt as cold and lifeless as the light that was long extinguished. Replaced by the side sweep of motion that was Yata kneeling beside him, arm over his shoulder.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye," he leaned his head to the side.

"I found him," Yata whispered quietly, slumping into Fushimi when an arm made its way around his waist, both holding on for support and tugging gingerly to offer it in return.

There was no further exchange of words. No need or desire to disrupt the mutual refusal to separate from the shared understanding that the past few years had brought so much death to so many more things than just people. And both of them hurt. Lost and looking for missing pieces they'd lost all sight of, never where they remembered leaving them. And for now—this was enough. Entangled in the most innocent way, long into the night, till the stars steadily faded into brightening spectrums enshrouded in twilight, and the temperature began to take its toll—making their way back together as if they did it all the time. The rest of the world asleep and unaware as the sun began to rise, ignorant to how antagonizing something so beautiful could really be when you were forced to watch it like an hourglass, realizing the grains were steadily overturning, the past increasing, the future beginning to recede, wondering how many hours would go by before this became nothing but another memory, the building pressure, the possibility of wanting more than just _enough_.

The tension that had them interconnected even after they'd begun to walk on their own, fingers interlaced, a sense of close contact reaffirmed by their previous selves creating the excuse for it to carry over to the present without question. The transient fear and persistent appetency that was wordlessly exchanging, seduced by the idea it had already become something else. Something more. Something too fragile to twist quite so unpredictably when they'd only just begun to untangle it in the first place. Something exciting and dangerous that only played off the desire to tear each other apart, not murderously, more intimately, the inability to ignore the insatiable urgency, the anxiety arousing such deadly curiosity between silent exchanges. Stolen glances. So absolutely fucked.

This wasn't even _close_ to enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anywho ,this is all I have that's in full blown completion so far. Thanks for reading if you bothered to get this far lol, Reviews are naturally appreciated, and if you leave me one, tell me one of your stories/fics, and I'll return the favor and read and leave you one too :)


	3. Part Three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eh, there's a lot of song lyrics in this chapter. I feel weird about how they're formatted still, I'm in a weird place in my life, re-starting college has been weird, this whole chapter feels kind of a weird. It's probably more repetitive as far as word choice, and I'm half certain I might have recycled particular phrases from chapter two by accident, but then again, there are also some PURPOSELY re-encorperated things. So, meh. It's definitely a better dialogue-to-drabbling ratio, but I've written and re-written so many minuscule lines of dialogue, slash added and subtracted that I'm getting sick of looking at it lol. No promises I won't end up making later alterations, but last time this happened, it took me THREE YEARS to finish a single chapter. So, WHOOF. No thanks. HOWEVER, I did make a CONSCIOUS effort to be less..well...all of MY convoluted writing. Still one of my own styles, but that I attempted to merge together. **Check beginning author notes for a quick explanation about the song-nonsense. This part is actually SEMI-IMPORTANT** And beggining-beginning of chapter for comment reviews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. So, like I said, there are a few song lyrics implemented at the start, if you don't know the songs, it will prrrooobably just look/sound stupid. So I recommend (I know it's a hassle) but even just you-tubing them real quick, or spotify, or whatever. I personally just have them spotified on a playlist in a row, so I can click next, since it's only the beginning few versus. Half the 'grammar' formatting for them is like...part real grammar...part added to do to how I feel like it sounds? If that makes sense?
> 
> If you wanna look them up in advance, rather than read along and then backtrack, they're as follows: Evolution by The Used, Armor by Landon Austin, Undone by FFH, Leave by Matchbox 20, Hurt No One by The Used, On My Own by Quietdrive, and Welcome to The Family by A Day to Remember. 
> 
> Haha I'm aware this is an odd clusterfxck, and noooo, this wasn't half me having driven back and forth to scoop my sister from college in OH (a 4 hour drive from me) listening to these songs that I kept, and we BOTH kept, attributing to shipping pairings...
> 
> ***ANYWAYS. There's also ONE more song, somewhere in the middle-ish, I'm aware that they way I've isolated flashbacks in-between every other verse or so makes it A. impossible to listen to the song while reading it, and B. impossible to have EVER actually thought about said things in real time lol but meh, this is already fan-fiction. So I figured, what the hell? 
> 
> When you get to that, lyrics are bolded, flashbacks are italicized, and larger chunks of 'intervening sentences' are separated by this little doohickey ⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜ however, if there's ever just regular, non-bolded, non-italicized text, just assume it's normal narration but at some point that would have looked increasingly stupid with too many ⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜'s between them all. ONE final thing, you're going to notice the alignment is all different for said flashbacks. Basically, if you see a centered indentation, it's a flashback all by itself, a left intended flashback indicates that I spliced it and there will be a corresponding right intended continuation, and finally, if you see all three, so a left to a centered to a right indented string of shxt, then, all three are connected. Not all that complex, but obviously I wrote it, so duh, it looks normal to me. These flashbacks range from dialogue I took straight from episodes, both english and Japanese translations, as well as excerpts from the novelizations and manga. I only really altered one. But, disclaimer or what not, I don't technically own the phrasing to those others of course.
> 
> That song is also half formatted lyrically like sentences and half like arbitrary commas I put in places where pauses sound like they occur. (I don't nec. want to say what it is right now, not that I guess it'll 'ruin' anything, but sort of an unnec. spoiler, so you can feel free to look it up if you want when you get to it. All I'll say is that, keep in mind, to find the extended remix. For purposes pertaining to following dialogue snippets.)
> 
> Overall, yeah, it's obviously sloppier in some places than others, but I did my best to incorporate a little bit of everything. So, you get something good at least? haha.

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  ** ~~QUICK COMMENT REVIEWS~~. Well, probably not QUICK, I  _suck_ at quick.**

_But here we goooo._

┻━┻︵ \\(°□°)/ ︵ ┻━┻

_A very big, lovely thank you to **Lyuh, thisloveisradiant** , and the  **nine other guests...?** lol who left kudos for this story :) I honestly don't know how archive works half the time, so I'm assuming guests just means anon. and I'm not being SUPER rude by not knowing how to make other usernames show up and give more specific shoutouts. _

_To **SilverThunder:** Glad I decided to post it over here!? I'M glad you even wanted to READ it twice lol, especially after we both know how rough that first go-around is!! For real, as the first person to fan fiction give this fic a chance or any sort of feedback,  **especially HONEST feedback,** and now to be the first person to archive hit it up and leave  **additional** comments, just CHRIST. Lol, you were ALREADY super amazingly awesome in my book of 'fuck yeah, this reader ROCKS,'_ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧  _and now that's just increased tenfold._ _I'm really glad my explanations were able to put more of my metaphorical mess into perspective :) I definitely feel like poetic imagery, at least in terms of my writing style, well, or in any case really, is so much more enjoyable once you understand it. Whichhhh might have just come out worded rudely? Hopefully not? Lol, I'm no good at conveying anything via internet on no sleep._ _Eeeeek,_ **o((^▽^))o** _,also, love that you loved those two line exchanges, they were one of my more simple, seemingly not like grandiose bits of dialogue, but a favorite of mine too. Super glad the mood was successfully set :) Haha, and, well, I hope you're still looking forward to this installment once you've actually READ it, I'm afraid it really is a bit of a mess, or maybe I'm being overly critical, or both. It's definitely less wax poetic, more repetitive word choice than I'd like it to be, and I had one hell of a hard time writing it. Probably because I never exactly HAD a designated plot for this, but, like the last few, stick it out, it definitely starts to even itself out after the more rough patches._

 _To **thisloveisradiant** : Okay, so, I definitely saw this review when you actually posted it, and it was seriously SO MXTHERFXCKING great, and flattering, and in-depth, and just like a  **five fxcking star review** , and I just wanted to start off by apologizing, because I never usually do review responses until I post the next part, cause I'm used to fan fiction, not archive so much (where you can evidently respond right below comments lol), but I LITERALLY would remember your review every time I tried to edit/update/finish part three and feel SO GUILTY having left it unacknowledged. Haha, like, seriously, laugh all you want, this has legitimately been BOTHERING me, but I'm a bit of a tweak, so that's just the way I am. ANYWAYS. Hollllycrap. I can't honestly believe, first off, you HAD the patience to read this over the span of two days and KEEP.GOING. Lol, it takes ME about an entire day usually to read through one part, sadly, and even I can only take it for so long before I'm eventually like _ヾ( ･`⌓´･)ﾉﾞ _WHAT. THE HELL. DOES. ANY OF THIS. EVEN MEAN!?「_ (゜-゜)  _...So don't even say the complexity/poetic language are beyond your level, although I won't go as far as to say I don't already  know I have a bit of an over-excellerated knack for abstracting EVERYTHING (lol about my one talent in life) even I'll start to confuse myself after awhile, because everything gets too convoluted if I can't remember what crazy tangent my bipolar brain went to that day. Haha, so yeah, I did think the warning was 150% NECESSARY. Regardless, that's some helllaaa high praise to hear, even knowing you  kept reading and kept going because you thought it was something amazing. Like, holy crap. Lol how do I even follow up to that? I'm so used to expecting people to reject my style I guess I get a little starstruck by the few and far between who decide to dive right in and discover something deeper in it for themselves. It makes me extremely happy._

 _Bahah-no 'just kidding necessary' there dude,_ (･_･”)/＼(･_･”)  _I think we ALL wanna understand his feelings towards Saruhiko. ԅ(≖‿≖ԅ) *creep-creepin on dem boys*_

 _And just, the fact you went as far as to recognize the level of meticulous planning and work I put into constructing most of my writing is astounding to me, that's not something I often hear in reviews. And it's typically so second nature to me, it was really cool, and I'd be lying if I didn't say a huge confidence booster, like, "yeah, you've got this, Morgan!" lol. And yeah, my bad, my mom was an English, Theater, and Speech teacher, aaaand I learned how to talk in full sentences by the age of one, soooo my vocabulary as always been a bit...extensive. It probably doesn't help that I oftentimes twist their definitions to fit my intentions either, but, to be frank, my entire objective and obsession with applying them is just that, to paint a picture. I love that ability of words to interchange and intertwine into this intricacy that becomes imagery. And, for someone who says they're not good at abstract, that whole 'stumbling through a forest' analogy/parallel was pretty damn poetic. Haha, as I'm sitting here like, "YES, BRILLIANT. I LOVE IT. PERFECT. EVERYTHING ABOUT IT. BRILLIANT!"_ (((o(ﾟ▽ﾟ)o)))

_Naw, you're not stupid either, don't say that, I'm just...well...LEGITIMATELY bipolar hah so like two different people, and for whatever reason, able to functionally put things together in this twisted tree formation fashion that's deeply rooted, but constantly branching out and ensnaring a series of scenarios, going off on different limbs, but all connecting back to a sturdy base. Just how I'm wired, I suppose. So thank you, and god bless you for appreciating that element of complexity, again, not something people tend to favor. And ohhh hell yeah was part two like, FINALLY, they SPEAK, no more PARAGRAPHS ON PARAGRAPHS IN PARALLELS ON MORE PARAGRAPHS. There's a part of me that definitely does dynamic well, at least I'd like to think so, I can't help but bend broken things and intermix emotions into an alternating series of bullshit, banter, and better sentiments. But. Again. BIPOLAR (。ヘ°)haha._

_All in all, this review is just so amazing I'm talking myself in even longer paragraphs than my chapters because I just want to respond to like, EVERYTHING. Cause it means so much that you took the legit TIME not only to read, but to analyze, compartmentalize, organize, and then write it all back in a review. Not many people do that. It makes all the insanity I go through trying to write these things no one ever reads truly, TRULY worth it for me. The few readers who take something away from what I've written. I DO have to apologize though, under the weight of all that flattery and super complimentary feedback, I feel like this chapter is such a failure of an excuse to live up to that. I half intentionally tried to tone down my word choice, half was in one of those spells where you THINK you were varying your usage, only to read through and realize...wow...used that word...four...hundred...thousand...times o_O Which drives me insane. I also had more trouble furthering a plot I never planned cause I never intended this to be a posted thing, or a continued fic. So I can't tell whether or not the way I'm trying to still isolate there feelings and dialogue into familiar but distant and just awkward is still painting a picture or just like bleeding colors into this blackening, ugly mess of watered down, BLECK. I contained the poetic imagery a bit too. Added a bit more just nonsensically narration in certain places. It's definitely a little less well planned, but I'm afraid if I don't post it soon, it will take me literal years. Because i'll keep nitpicking and rewriting stupid little things till even I don't know which way was better or worse and I'm left with 800 drafts and I resent the story altogether. (this has happened before. lol. it took THREE years to finally gut and scrap together). So. Yikes. I'm totally psycho rambling, sorry, running on no sleep as usual. Really hope you can still learn to love this not so consistent, but trying my best chapter/part installment. Because a lot of effort went into it, I just don't know if it shows. Rawr. So frustrating. But. Shutting up now. Lol. But, ps, there are some more FEELINGS to be rehashed between these two this time around._

**_Anddddd then, there was FANFICTION:_ **

**_ヽ(°◇° )ノ_ **

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 ⇱ҏℜ❥Ɱ¡ᵟⅇⓢ||✎||ѠяⅈʇŦ∊η||✑||ⱺη|ᵂα⏉ⒺԄ|❥ℙʇ∙ӡ⇲

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❝ ** _There is something about music that keeps its distance even at the moment that it engulfs us. It is at the same time outside and away from us and inside and part of us. In one sense it dwarfs us, and in another we master it. We are led on and on..._** ❞  ** _―_ _Aaron Copland_**

* * *

Fushimi was pulling a new sweatshirt over his head and Yata was busy fidgeting with his  _MP3_ player.

" **Call me a traitor, for _changing my mind_. Call me a criminal, if _thinking's_ a crime.**   _Call me an animal,_ **it's hard to define**. _I don't care what you say,_ **I came to** **_de_** _ **fy**. I've come so far. Everything changes, _ **with the way that I feel** , **seems impossible I'll stay the same.** _Time rearranges. The more we refuse is the more time we stand in the way. **And how am I to be myself?**  Everyone's trying to be everyone else. Everything changes, with the way that I feel, seems impossible I'll stay the same._ **Go back to the middle, try filling the void. Watch thoughts into action, it's hard to destroy. Call me an animal,** _ **and I won't deny...**_ "

_[Evolution by The Used]_

_click._

" _I'm not bulletproof when it comes to_   **you**.  **Don't know what to say, when you make me the enemy.** _After the wars won, there's always the next one._ **I'm not bulletproof when it comes to _you_. ** _Maybe I'll crash into you, maybe we'll open these wounds, we're only alive if we bruise, so I lay down this armor._ **I will surrender tonight before we _both_ lose this fight** _. Take my defenses, **all** my defenses _,_ I lay down this armor _.__ **I'll do what it takes, _to make this right_ , but we got to stop before _the regret…_** _"_

_[Armor by Landon Austin]_

_click._

" _Open up wide, swallow down deep,_ **no spoon full of sugar could make it sweet.** _The cancer inside, stealing my sleep_ , **night after night it keeps haunting me. The secrets I keep, are tearing me up inside, I try to hide them and I wonder why? I wonder why I'm still running when I know there's no escaping** _. Come undone _,_  surrender is stronger _,__ **I don't need to be the hero tonight.** _We all want love, we all want honor,_ **nobody wants to pay the _asking price._  ** _Fall on my knees, fall on my pride,_ **I'm tripping over all the times _I've lied_. I'm asking please, but I can see in your eyes,** _you don't need tears for alibis_. **It's true what they say, love must be blind, that's why you're still standing by the sinner's side. _You're still by my side when all the things I've done have left you bleeding…_** "

_[Undone by FFH]_

_click._

" _It's amazing, how you make your face just like a wall. How you take your heart and turn it off._ **How I turn my head and _lose it all_.** _It's unnerving,_ **how just one move puts me by myself, and there you go just trusting _someone_  else**. **And now I know I put us _both_  through  _hell_**. _I'm not saying there wasn't nothing wrong,_   **I just didn't think _you'd ever get tired of me_.**   _And I'm not saying we ever had the right to hold on,_   **I just didn't wanna let it get away from me** _. But if that's how it's gonna leave, straight out from underneath,_ **then we'll see _who's_ sorry now. If that's how it's gonna stand when you know you've been depending on the one you're leaving now. The _one_ you're _leaving out…_** _"_

_[Leave by Matchbox 20]_

_click._

" _I never meant to hurt no one, nobody_ **ever tore me down like _you_** _. I think you knew it all along,_ **and now you'll never see my face again** _. I never meant to hurt nobody,_ **and will I ever see the sun again? I wonder where the guilt had gone, I think of what I have become, _and still_ , ** _I never meant to hurt nobody _._ Now I'm taking what is mine _,_ _**letting go of my mistakes, build a fire from what I've learned **,**  and watch it fade away. _Because I have no heart to break_ , I cannot fake it like before. I thought that I could stay the same, and now I know that I'm not sure,  _I even love me anymore…_** "

_[Hurt No One by The Used]_

_click._

" _I've been so many places, I've seen so many things, but_ **nothing compares _to the way_ you _used to look at me_.** _We both know this is over, we know that lines are blurred,_ **sometimes I think that I could fix it if _I_ _just found the words_.** _Put down your gods _,_  _ **so I can _try_ to explain where I went wrong. Trust **,** that I'll stay right by your side ** **, i**** f you can't open up then  _I guess I never will_ …** _"_

_[On My Own by Quietdrive]_

_click._

_"We're finally alone at last._ **Oh, how I've waited for this day to come** _. There's just something about you that rubs me wrong, you're not worth my attention. I built this with my own two hands, if you could severe the ties and stop using me as your next misconception _._ _ **I don't believe that _everything_ you've known about me is _gone forever,_ and _I won't forget_ the days that we spent forever,  _it haunts me_. I don't believe that everything you've known about me is gone forever.  _And I won't forget the days that we spent_ forever,  _it haunts me.._ _._** "

_[Welcome to the Family by A Day To Remember]_

_click._

"Are these supposed to be about me?"

The other boy stiffened.

"Becau—"

 _"Give me that!"_  Fushimi shouted over him, whipping around and startling Yata half to death. "I am _so_ _not joking,_ Misaki," he fumed, unavoidably flustered, "give it to me," lunging for the object with absolutely no concern for how stupid he looked. "Give it back  _right now,"_ yanking the headphone straight from his ear.

"Holy shit, it was  _just_  a question," both hands rose nonthreateningly, "don't shoot."

Provoking impatient eyes and an aggravated exhale in response. "I  _ **swear**_ , I can't even turn my back for  _five_  whole minutes and  _already_  you're up to no good," he reprimanded to Misaki's amusement, "try and learn some self-restraint, would you?" Head shaking in disapproval. "You're so undisciplined it's disgusting."

" _Gee_ , sooow _rry,_ **mom** ," Yata cocked his head with a condescending inflection, "I promise not to wander around the store again, _hooonest_."

"God, you really are just a giant child, aren't you," Fushimi's face twisted with undercurrents of irritability, "applying the broadest definition of giant and the worst possible definition of child. Didn't your mother ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself?"

"Did yours?"

" _Tsk._ " Saruhiko crossed his arms with a scowl, " _cheapshot..._ "

" _Hmm?_ Come again?"

"I _said_ ," he huffed, "that it was a cheap shot."

"What a coincidence!" The response was as perspicuous as it was smart-mouthed. "Your favorite kind!"

Another  _tsk_ , timed with the wayward turning of his body. 

"A common interest it would seem," Fushimi's eyes rolled, unamusedly devoid of color, indirectly dismissing having been so easily outfoxed and growing immaturely cross in sight of the loss, "and no, for your information, they aren't," he slipped his friend an invalidating side glance, "not  _everything's_ about  _you_ , you know."

 _"_ MIS _tæ_ K _eɪ_?" One eyebrow angled appreciably, "You're kidding, right?"

Flatlining with a deadpan stare, the words caught somewhere in his throat.

"That's the best you could come up with?"

No response.  _Fuck._

"Three points for creativity, _zero_ for stealth," he openly criticized, "Honestly, for a _hidden_ weapons user, you ought to be ashamed," Misaki parroted back with an even more patronizing _tsk'ing._ "If you call _that_ subtle."

"I never ca—"

"I mean, seriously. What happened?" he elongated without reprieve, "I thought you were supposed to be some sort of genius?"

Fushimi's expression only slightly less impassive. "Did you want me to answer that?"

"Did you just ask me for permission? You really _must_ be losing your touch," auburn locks shook pitifully. Eyes clouding with a judgemental imbalance of gold and no-fucks-given, "Here's a little pointer," he reinforced, taking on a snarky tone, "you might want to be a little less _specific_ when naming your playlists next time," Yata gestured dramatically, "but I'm no _expert._ "

"Misa— _"_

" _MIS_ ** _tæ_** _K_ ** _eɪ_** ," he covered his mouth and coughed to the side.

Forcing the other to pause, speculatively eyeing the space between them. The air was heavy, thick, and hard to cut through. Like a dense, impenetrable fog. Reducing visibility and making it difficult to breathe—lost enough at is was—stubborn, disobliging, and losing the capacity for civil conversation. Wary of miscalculating the appropriate amount of time before trying again. Counting to ten and back, then once more just in case, frustratedly clearing his throat. Only to be interrupted by the prolonging of this passive-aggressive punishment as if on cue; opposing body deliberately craning back over the device with falsified curiosity, repeating the epithet with an even more bewildered, cagey sort of emphasis this time.

"...What even is that? Latin?"

The spelling—he knew already—the coy echo of accusation causing the heat to rise steadily in his face. Misaki in his more cunningly manipulative form accelerating the evolution of ghostly pale to the beginning stages of color with an obnoxious sense of ease. This offhanded and unfortunate talent, one might go as far to call it, for undermining his ability to maintain composure that he'd always had, a combination of silent fists and empty headed stares the taller boy by no means favored. Not now. Not in this context. And _definitely_ not in the way that lazy smirk began to arch. Equally conscious eyes provoking and without sympathy.

"No, no,  _serious_ —"

Fushimi glared. "I didn't mean it like _that_ , okay," he unintentionally backtracked. Addressing the indubitable text displayed across the screen in more divulging detail than he'd planned to. "So do me a favor and quit it with the angsty, oblivious,  _Baka-saki_ routine already," he crossed his arms out of habit, "it's getting old."

The not-quite-so-casual slip of the tongue that swept the subject matter back into consideration a reflexive measure towards the increasing awareness of spite across from him that it had clearly instigated. That was _clearly_ not backing down or going away anytime soon at this rate. _Zero for subtlety, that's for sure,_ he brought his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling embarrassed for being so carelessly open and unguarded.  _A perfect score_ _between open-and-shut and no-shit-sherlock_   _on a scale_ _of stupid-fucking-shithead decisions,_  he cursed,the unavoidable play on words lacking any artifice:  _Mistake._

" _Ah_ ," Yata cocked his eyebrow, obviously pleased, "but you do admit that it _is_ about me then?"

"Shut up," Fushimi threw the device, "Only  _you_  could make perseverance a short-coming."

Intercepting, the redhead made a sure-handed catch, "Stop, you're breaking my heart _._ "

"That's not all I'm gonna break," he muttered under his breath.

Recognizing the disconcerting lapses in character—something he'd anticipated—Yata extended one leg outward to nudge Fushimi's shoulder, " _Hey,_ " he began, half awkward, half softened as the other pulled away, not quite as flexible when it came to resituating.

"Hey  _yourself_ ," Fushimi said uncooperatively—nonsensically, and in the closest form of compromise.

The smallest fluctuations and tiniest adjustments that appeared insignificant to the naked eye their way of reaching out, immovable until it came to the other; until the self-governing rule met the self-integrated exception. A shared basis of understanding that stood firm against various errors in communication, intentional or accidental or any combination of the above; which, it just so happened, was a delicacy in the spread of their diction, and an inevitability in their usual dealings. Something that came as easily as breathing. These translations lost between them. Thus, these seemingly trivial inconsistencies and constant interruptions had become nothing short of pertinent reference points, self-instilled and micromanaged, but no less an irreplaceable vestige that even time had failed to fully vanquish. Like a faulty-wired sixth sense caught someplace in the forebrain. Creating their own out of body cerebral cortex, so contradictory and contralateral but comprising a complete system that required one another to function. One half processing what the other half received, always divided, but working symbiotically to make sense of what became otherwise incomprehensible. Useless on their own, but when put together, they stood a fighting chance.

Remaining in their respective hemispheres, the both of them frowning but not crossing any more unnecessary lines, save to say for the few in the metaphorical sand beneath their feet that they'd long since kicked out of place and left askew. But then again, anatomical allegories aside, they'd never been very skilled at walking a path they couldn't bend to their own specific gaits, that too, however, came back to the same principle, routing through isolated channels that conformed to their specific inclinations, artistic versus analytical, intuition versus logic, insight versus reasoning, creativity versus concrete. Estranged, but not so different once they began to intertwine. So, although to the average outsider, broken meant _broken,_ to the two of them,  _broken_ only meant giving way to a bridge. Some indecipherable ground where they could meet in the middle, the invisible corpus callosum that connected them and poured concrete between the gaps, incapable of determining which grains had been redistributed by which assault, or how to measure the individual exertions of hot air that had covered up all the evidence. 

Such things, on the contrary, had a tendency to evaporate. The type of awareness that was lacking when it came to the knowledge of their own inner workings, or why or even _how_ they fit together. Almost fit to be a phenomenon, but make no mistake, it wasn't a miracle, and it wasn't quite a maneuver, so to speak. Nor was it a permanent solution. For all the wordiness it took up to try and explain, it presented itself far more complexly than it was due credit. They weren't quite scientific enough to provide any proof, nor uphold any degree of measurable accuracy; it wasn't like this intricate code, it was hardly even standardized enough to consider _applicable_ at certain times, let alone something one could replicate and attribute instructions for, and was not to be confused with any type of failsafe. It wasn't a hundred percent, it was simply enough. The conscious awareness of an extended willingness to go above and beyond that went unspoken. Even if above was but a fraction, and beyond no more than breathing room. It was their system. The juncture of concurrent lines in a point of discontinuity. It worked. 

Until it didn't.

"Just relax, okay?"

"Yeah? Just reverse time."

"C'mon, you can't be  _that_ mad."

"I can't?"

He sighed. "Okay-okay, you  _shouldn't,_ I stand corrected."

"Well I am."

"I've got one about you too, you know," Yata imparted shyly. "A playlist, I mean."

"And that's comforting...how?"

"I guess it's not," he grinned, "mine's  _way_  worse."

"Do your worst then," an even tone permitted, attempting to redirect the attention.

Misaki consented, " _Per_ request," his voice dipped with theatrical compliance, a deep maroon device appearing within eyes range, illuminated with verbal accompaniment that was further accentuated by features that were _far_ too amused, his entire upper body extending forward from the edge of the bed, " _ **FU** ck **T** hi **S** h **I** t_."

" _Tsk._ You didn't even use my whole name."

" _That's_  the part that bothers you?"

Fushimi shrugged. "The letters aren't in the right order either since you asked. I mean,  _ **Fu** - **t** - **s** -_ ** _i_** _?_ _...Really,_ _"_ he demanded, casual tone curdling into an abhorrent grimace, "It sounds like **footsy.** I  _hate_  feet."

Sighing deeply, Yata rolled his eyes back into his skull. "I  _know_ , Saru, I just kept capitalizing every next letter that  _was_  in your name."

"There's definitely no  _T_  in  _either_ of my names."

"I _KNOW,"_ the smaller boy interrupted, all flustered, "stop talking down to me, I don't put so much emphasis on  _playlist_  titles," he made a face, "I'll be sure to brush up on my dead languages and  _ASCII_ -symbols next time, as not to insult your _precious_ intelligence."

"Well, good," Fushimi grinned, one eye closed, peering out through his bangs from the other, "I might lack subtlety from time to time...but if you've already forgotten how to spell, then well... _whoof_ ," he outstretched his arms above his head, purposely entertaining the look of confusion as he brought them down to his sides, bending to crack his back. "...you forgot the  _H_ too, by the way," he clarified.

" _Wow,_  y'know, I only told you to try and make you feel better, but way to be a  _total_  dick about it," Yata expressed with more annoyance than offense. "Congratulations on winning  _N_ _itpicky Bitch_  for twenty years running," he clapped sarcastically, "Unopposed too!" 

"Well, as much pleasure as I take in your flattery, especially when it comes to outranking all competition, imaginary or not," the darker haired boy smirked, just a little bit too much leftover satisfaction still radiating, "don't get carried away thinking you're so clever that I can't see when I'm being clearly condescended to," he cautioned.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say I was trying to _pull a fast one_ over you," golden eyes engaged him flatly, "just trying to remind you what an insensitive prick you are."

"Such sweet words, you're making me blush," Fushimi swooned, outwardly reciprocating the mockery. 

"Fuck off."

"I don't know what you're getting so worked up at _me_ for, though." He feigned innocence. " _You're_  the one with the shit-for-an-excuse-spelled playlist."

"Dear _lord,_  let it _go_ ," Misaki groaned, "how can you really still be hung up on that?" offering him a queer look in the form of the inability to understand, "Is that, honest to god, what it's like to live in your brain? Does the inaccuracy really bother you  _that_  much? Like, _seriously_?" Ignoring the fact that his own cheaply crafted caption was also equidistant in having nothing nice to say.

The other boy just gave another shrug.

"Fine. Want me to change it? Here," he fidgeted with then represented the player, " _ **FU** ckthi **S** s **HI** t_. Happy?"

"Still horrendous," Fushimi shook his head, yawning as he wound the headphone cord around the player, growing disinterested in the subject altogether. "And I would've sooner just had you  _not_  looking through my things."

" _Here_ ," Yata shoved something abruptly into his lap, "go ahead."

Fushimi turned the mechanism around in his fingers thoughtfully at first, pushing it back after only a moment's consideration. 

"No offense, but I don't really think I want to know what kind of songs remind you of me," he trailed away indiscernibly... _they're probably all_ ** _horrible_** _..._ _a_ _nd I can't even blame you..._ _B_ _ut I definitely don't want to_ ** _hear_** _them either,_ he was trying his best to smile—not one of his strong points—only giving himself away.

"There's only one," Misaki held it out to him with less steady hands than the previous attempt. Head down and unimaginably red. "Don't laugh. It's lame. Like _really_ lame."

Swallowing hard, with great difficulty not to become distracted indefinitely by the expression across from him, Fushimi consented. Taken aback when the second earbud he'd extended, partially out of habit, the other a product of nerves, was just as fretfully refused.

"No, both," Yata spoke in choppy fragments, "take both."

Gingerly cocking his head to one side, unexpectant oceanic eyes assessed the aurora borealis of amaranth birthing across the bridge of the redhead's nose, the retracted body language, the palpable distance. Such a curious sight. To see such an animated individual rendered so shy and stationary so suddenly. Not to this degree, and most _certainly_ not in front of him, at least, at least not like _this_...this atmospheric shift he couldn't seem to accurately forecast...the sensation of water starting to rise...the sensory envelopment of something hypnotic and sedating that offset him. Scared him. Sent an eerie shiver down the vertebrae in his spine. Not quite the same as before, as earlier in the night. Thousands of years worth of instinct setting the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The soothing calmness never a force to be trifled with. The superstitions of old Sailor's tales. The Siren's song. The serenade of the sea and the sky preparing to speak. The stillness of the shoreline, the absence of sound _...d_ _eath and distant thunder...standing in the river..._ the start of a storm. 

But he was quick to shirk his suspicions, he'd had enough of dangerous women whispering seductive sweet nothings in his ear. They lacked the proper build, they bored him. _They were nothing compared to **this** ,_ he thought, getting ahead of himself again. Nowhere near as bewitching as the gravitational pull of the body he felt he'd been born to orbit, lulling him into this never ending rotation, encircling the lack of confidence across from him with a hopeless sigh.

"That bad, huh?" Fushimi cracked another smile, trying to laugh this time, even if it was forced—forced to thrust himself headfirst back into the stages of extroversion, crawling forth from his shell—vulnerable and exposed with little and less left to hide behind. What choice did he have? Nothing about their time together had made much sense, no structure, no transition,  _but we're not a storybook,_  he rationalized, having obtained the implied moral long before he'd stepped foot from the comfort of his confinement. It was so cliche' it was nauseating,  _no regrets,_  the slender boy heaved a heavy, inward sigh, still not wholeheartedly convinced, "Sure you don't want to listen?"

"I've got the whole thing memorized," came an unexpectedly honest confession, Misaki's fingers hesitating forward, both compelling and cautious. Gently releasing the other earbud from Fushimi's and closing the distance with a voice that grew smaller and shyer by the second. "Now I want you to listen," he knelt in front of him, brushing back midnight locks with a lingering fondness, pausing momentarily, then pressing them into place, "...because I don't know how to say any of it either…"

Fushimi understood, offset by the contact, everything between them suddenly so much more magnetic, limbs growing restless with the desire to reciprocate the gestures. To feel the heat rise off the other boy's skin, the coloration that was practically producing steam.

"Just, just don't laugh okay?" amber eyes shifted insecurely, "it was between this or this one other song and I couldn't decide, but this is the most—"

"Just play it," the taller boy interjected, voice so uncharacteristically softened, almost sweet, steadier hand covering the hesitance hovering above the dial.

Clenching both eyes shut, much like a child bracing to receive a shot, Yata pressed play before his fingers could forfeit. Scurrying back on top of the bed where he promptly engaged the comforter in a one-sided staring contest, too afraid to watch for any possible facial fluctuations potentiating from his friend, any hints or clues of his initial reaction, blanket all bunched up like a bulletproof vest. Clutching it to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around the material, allowing his chin to sink safely into the duvet. Stomach swallowing his heart muscles and tangling through his intestines, this labyrinth of peaks and plummets, chest pounding, gut sinking. Anxiety and nervousness folding his whole body forward into itself, the involuntary contracting of muscle tissue stimulating such restless movements, aware the sequence had started. Mindful of the fact that it was too late to take it back, that he'd soon begin to take it in, that he himself had relinquished all control over what resulted. Whether or not Fushimi's face would remain flat, whether he would flinch with indifference or even offense—furrow with confusion, or perhaps a judgmental frown—what the chances were he'd actually smile without misconstruing?

The meanings behind melodies didn't always resonate on the same plane, the music may be universal, but the message itself, forever subjective. What if he didn't get it, what if intention and interpretation failed to align? Or worse, what if expectation and reality refused one another altogether? What if they collided in a crash-landing and the whole thing cracked open? What if he simply swallowed and then spit it all back in his face with a dismissive  _tsk'ing_? A familiar sound that could be as specific and demeaning as it was innate and ineffective. And on the off chance it favored the former, as it so frequently preferred, was he prepared, not to mention  _capable_  of recovering given their current circumstances? What if  _he_  snapped should the reaction challenge the desired response too drastically? What if he shut down, lashed out, became too defensive, or unnecessarily neurotic?

 _What if I fuck the whole thing up?_  Yata continued to cycle unproductively, falling victim to the nerve-wracking self-awareness that came with submitting something so sensitive to this soundless interpretation not instantaneously shared with him. Being forced to wait, to wonder, to undergo mere moments melt around him like molasses, thick and viscous, pooling in overlapping right to left layers; bitter and sticky as it ran down into something reminding him of rubber cement, fluid but fastened, and yet not quite immobilized. Attached to the features he began to fear, a face Fushimi had never been known for saving, or perhaps saved so well that's what made it scary. Having already proven, irrefutably so, that there were still some he'd never seen before, physiognomies of a stranger, a compromising and compelling sort of secret. The restricted splintering of internal and external countenance comprising this configuration that skewed the certainty Yata felt towards how well he actually knew the boy he'd always considered his best friend without question.

Well-aware that half of this was no more than a textbook stalling tactic, an excuse for his mind to filter through these unresolved emotions; while, at the same time, pretending the centripetal force that spun them wasn't the systematically diffident, self-effacing anxiety that he cursed his zodiac sign for predisposing him toward.  _Y'know, I used to think that being the only sign ruled by the moon was kind of cool,_ Yata's expression fluctuated between a contemplative then disheartened frown, _b_ _ut that was before I forgot Cancerians also come with a lifetime guarantee of insecurity, hypersensitivity, and confrontation-for-shit skill-sets._ He steadily exhaled, trying to limit eye contact with Fushimi's face, fidgety and restless when his ears caught the faintest reverberations emanate from the small pair of earphones.  _Oh god, it's starting,_ his stomach somersaulted, regret sinking more steeply with the reflexive recitation of lyrics that made him regret the whole thing immediately.

Adjacent to where Yata sat fretting, thumbnail between his teeth, the square frames adorning the bespectacled, atramentous haired boy's eyes lowered in sync with his face, slipping slightly from the bridge of his nose before pushing them back into place and readjusting. Unsettled. Dancing back and forth between whether to position himself contemplatively, casually, or comfortably,  _or why the hell I care so much._ As if there were really an appropriate way to sit in such a situation. As if one could possibly be worse or better off than the other. Or that either would alter this song he'd been handed without further elaboration, but certainly not a level of uniquely frantic appeal that he'd found too attractive to ignore.

Heart beginning to beat faster than before. Fushimi's excitatory system anxious with anticipation. Startled by the slow instrumentals immediately interrupted by vocals, allotting him zero opportunity to speculate and scrutinize before the Conor Maynard cover started setting in skin deep. No way to falsify and set the stage, the blank expression on his face evidence enough that the selection had far exceeded any prior expectation. Not expecting something so soft, so haunting in the wake of perfect simplicity, that it began to overwhelm him.

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

**Hello, it's me **.****

**I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet…**

The immediacy of such a sinking feeling intercepting with choice words and intervening visuals.

_"But I definitely wanna talk more about this later!"_

**to go over, everything…**

The inability to keep his promises.

**…they say times supposed to heal you,**

_"…I waited…"_

**but I ain't done much healing…**

_"…right next to the phone for WEEKS."_

**Hello, can you hear me?**

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

The anchor of guilt in his chest submerging into such an empty cavity— _the irrecoverable condition_ —the fragmentary, disequilibrated shards fracturing to background music— _the feeling of falling apart_ —chopping and screwing in perfect sync with upwards glances and the undeniable aching of the _Homra_ insignia igniting underwater like liquid fire. Lyrics hitting him, hitting him way too hard.

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

**I'm just at a house dreaming, about who we used to be...**

_This was the first time that somebody who reacts in an exaggerated way every time without fail, and says so, so straightforwardly, was always by his side..._

**...when we were younger and free.**

_"Saruhiko, you showed it to me...I don't understand half the things you think about, but only listening to what you say makes me more excited than ever!"_

  **I've forgotten how it felt…**

 _...Compared to other people, Fushimi might have various talents, but **this** was what felt like a real merit he had achieved _.__  

**…before the world fell at our feet.**

_"Why do you want me to be understood by everyone when you yourself don't? If YOU understand me, I would be content."_

**There's such a difference...**

_"In the end, I wasn't like you and the others."_

**...between us.**

_"The day when you'll finally understand me..."_

**And a million miles...**

_"...will never come..."_

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

The sensation of sinking quickly beginning to compel Fushimi to swim, eyes singularly focused on the pair no longer facing him, not caring that he didn't know how, only the body too shy and far away from him to stomach. The delicate sound of piano keys pressing so softly and subduing as intimacy and innocence equipoised then unbalanced.

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

**Hello from the other side,**

_"...you'll have no choice but to keep hating me."_

**I must've called a thousand times.**

_"...they're all gone. I can't think of anyone else to turn to...you're the only one that's left!"_

**To tell you, I'm sorry, for everything that I've done.**

_"...that's what you get when you rely on things like friends..."_

**But when I call, you never, seem to be home.**

_"You think I_  like  _having to ask you??"_

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

Making his head hurt, the asymmetrically synchronistic arrangement of memories that isolated and entertained such specific instances with such an unforgiving emphasis. Things he hadn't thought about in years. And all of it coming at him so fast. 

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

**Hello from the outside...**

It was hard to process.

 _"Don't you_ care _anymore?_ _Have you forgotten_ everything _?"_

**...at least I can say that I tried.**

_"...I'm_ sure _you still have it in you..."_

**To tell you, I'm sorry, for breaking your heart...**

_"Because it's stupid. Did I smash this thing you call pride, Misaki?"_

**...but it don't matter, it clearly, doesn't tear you apart...**

To hold onto each fragment for longer than a second. 

_"This isn't it...what I wished for..."_

**...anymore.**

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

The kind of chronology that rewound them backward to fourteen, their world; fast-forwarding to sixteen, the collapse; then losing the next four years in the lyrics, the miscommunication; to where they sat now, twenty years young. And by _no means_ was Misaki a million miles away...Fushimi's entire body longing to close the last few feet that stood in his way, fingers flinching and folding against the empty space where the other boy's had been, the feeling that seemed so terribly fleeting and all too long ago. Heart thumping, heavily, steadily, and to three distinct syllables:  ** _Mi-sa-ki._** Golden eyes chancing to glance, as if they could feel the deeper set shades falling over his body, averting—so futile—flushing, refocusing...

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

**Hello, how are you?**

_"Is it because we're in the dark?"_

**It's so typical of me to talk about myself, I'm sorry.**

_"Is it because we're in a desperate situation?"_

**I hope, that you're well.**

_"Why can you smile while looking at me?"_

He hated it.

**Did you ever make it out of that town, where nothing ever happened?**

It burned.

_"You know, Saruhiko, I thought of you as one of my most important comrades."_

**It's no secret **,** that the both of us **,** are running out of time...**

_Exchanging a look with somebody next to him, who had matched the timing, but he was not there this time..._

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

_...make it stop..._

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

_...During this second ceremony, this installation in his life, he was alone._

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

_...please...just make it **stop**..._

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

**Hello from the other side,**

_"I don't believe it...That idiot really came after me..."_

**I must've called a thousand times.**

_"Saruhiko! If you die without telling me anything, I'll_ never _forgive you!"_

**To tell you, I'm sorry, for everything that I've done.**

_"Would you have understood even if I told you?"_

**But when I call, you never, seem to be home**

_"I would've thought you were a traitor forever..."_

**Hello from the outside,**

_"Misaki..."_

**at least I can say that I tried.**

_"...I'll think about how to say things so that even a fool can understand."_

**To tell you, I'm sorry,**

_"_ _Why didn't you tell me?"_

**for breaking your heart.**

_"Couldn't you guess?"_

**But it don't matter,**

_"I **am**  a traitor."_

**it clearly,** **doesn't tear you apart,**

_**anymore** ** _._ ** _

⤛⟪⧝⟫⤜

 _You're wrong,_  he cringed. It  ** _kills_** _me._

Yata's stomach contracting simultaneously, drawn indistinguishably back to the alternating arctic and aegon rings of the vast oceanic eyes swallowing him without any subtlety. Eliciting shivers throughout his entire frame. The kind that made him tremble, stringing the disks in his spine along as they detached with the intensity of the tremor then clicked back into place like he was made of plastic. One of those anatomical models used as medical aids. Constantly being pulled apart and put back together again without his consent. The concentration of such a prying gaze making him uncomfortable and anxious with ensuing surges of excitement that he was embarrassed beyond discernible regard over the obviousness of. The  _existence_  of. The  _ **extent**_  of. Feeling it all the way in his thighs, like a baby giraffe still learning how to walk, the weakness and inability to control the sensation striking hesitation and disseverance under pressure. Balance compromised and completely thrown, just stumbling through the motions. But it was a fluttery sort of affinity and appetency transitioning between them, reciprocally transfixing the way the polar magnetism was transferring effortlessly from blue eyes to gold.

Fushimi inundated by the radiating intensity offsetting the chaos in his chest, stomach somersaulting, the ebb and flow of oppositional irises inquiring and inquisitive, innocently invasive on the equal grounds they hadn't shared in far too long. Some undeniable build up mutually breaking until the song began to extend too long as well, both sets of features altering synchronously, Fushimi's mouth pulling into his cheek. This unexpected smile he couldn't stifle as these unpredicted rap versus accosted his ears; Yata's eyes widening, having been so distracted, with the immediate realization that the song should have ended several minutes ago,  _unless…_

"Oh _,_   _shit_."

The taller boy reading his lips as the other lunged forward, frantic, face deepening and feet faltering just as Fushimi was removing a single ear bud.

 _WHAM_.

Everything went dark.

_Wha-the..._

Head all fuzzy.

 _...hellwastha_.. _.??_

Taking an extra second to recover from the initial shock of being overtaken by all five-foot-six-inches of fast forward friction. Back smacking against the hardwood floor and subsequently knocking all the wind from Yata's chest. Taking a bony knee straight to the ribs on the way down, curling inwardly in pain. Symmetries all smashed together and awkwardly entangled— _far_ from a perfect moment.

" _FOOSH!"_ Yata exclaimed, absolutely horrified by the distinct sound of bone colliding with the ground in a deep  _thud_  that continued to reverberate through the floorboards. Having collapsed with such an ungracious harshness that he'd literally been able to  _feel_  the impact, causing a panic. Thrown into a concerned frenzy as he hurriedly maneuvered his arms, angling them on either side of Fushimi's shoulders, palms flat and upper body lifting swiftly with record speed.

" ** _FOO_** —"

There was an unappreciative grumble from somewhere beneath him, wincing and refocusing as the other's face began to scrunch confusedly, dizzy and discomposed. Lashes fluttering as he blinked at his surroundings a few times, squinting and still moving haphazardly until an unexpectedly heart-wrenching side smirk suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Stitched perfectly and mischievously across Fushimi's face.

"So," he asked, devilishly demure eyes pouring upward at a rather unfair and equally disorienting angle, "you're gonna make me your  _misses_  now, are you?"

The pressure of their bodies pressed up against one another finally actualizing, Yata left stammering and stuttering spasmodically, stunningly scarlet as every outline of the other boy compressed distinguishably beneath his weight. Such a distracting configuration...

"N-no, that's not the right version," he fought with uncooperative reflexes, trying to wrestle away the remaining earbud, "STOP LISTENING!"

Fushimi, on the other hand, quite purposely prolonging the struggle. "Whoa,  _don't breathe me like_   **you** _breathe me_ ," he echoed, swapping the pronouns, free hand pressed to Yata's face in a preventative measure, arms not long enough to overtake the distance or compensate for the other's reach. " _Right here all alone…"_ he continued roguishly with mock confusion. Vocals drawing out the words in question as his counterpart grew feistier.

" **I SAID—** ," the redhead struggled, " **STOP LIS—** "

"... _making love until the morn?..._ my- _my,_ is that so, Misaki?" Saruhiko rocked his hips sideways, face folding with an inquisitively risen brow, "how _bold_ of you. You must _really_ have a lot of faith in that stamina of yours, huh?" he entertained, trying _extremely hard_ not to laugh when he went as far as to give him a little wink. 

Merciless, but playful, yes; however, it very quickly became too intrusive for the other boy to tolerate.

"SHUT. _UP!"_ Misaki yelled, "and STOP fucking listening to that," fingers outstretching desperately, snatching at the air, the opposing pair only tightening and becoming a set. Pushing from contesting directions like a mid-air game of tug-of-war that was no longer winnable. Fushimi's other hand anchoring his abdomen at a safe enough distance from which momentum couldn't easily be gained, feeling the figure beneath his fingertips begin tensing more noticeably.

"Don't," Yata's midsection shook, as if to knock a pesky cat from his lap, forced to resort to prying, body reacting more jauntily and fragmented than normal, a sort of disassembly to his usual choreographic-like-ability to outmaneuver that the raven haired boy could read instantly through his movements. Something off and not quite right. "LET _**GO**_ FUSHIMI!" his voice was shrill, pressing against the blockade of the palm and the arm it was attached to with the better portion of his weight.

So he did.

Another loss of balance causing Yata's forehead to collide with his shoulder. " _Ahh-h-owww, **whhyy** ," _he released limply, voice drawn out with a slight wavering and an inaudible wince, speaking directly into the fabric of the slender body he'd become forcibly slumped against all over again. Chest to chest now—lower halves not withstanding, but far more unspeakable and uncomfortably intimate as far as closeness was concerned, trying not to focus on either detail for too long—with one hand still struggling to support what little space was left between them from collapsing.

"I guess you really  ** _do_** _love the way I turn you on_ ," Fushimi grinned, still reciting the lyrics relentlessly, but in what appeared to be a joking manner, because it was. Because  _he_  was, just joking, of course, just messing around. And he knew, had their roles been reversed, that Misaki wouldn't have let him live something like _this_  down for  _weeks._

But Misaki was no longer the _least_ bit receptive—embarrassed, angry, and eyes in that terrible sort of welling. "Y-you're such a j-jerk," he spewed, in an incoherent series of emotionalistic bursts, all rushed with indignation and defiance, smacking the device so hard that both the earphone and the cord detached completely as the _MP3_ player flung sideways and collided with the wall. 

Infuriation rising in sync with his body as Fushimi instinctually enervated. Forgoing any further comedic remarks or blatant insensitivities against the incapacitating overflow of freneticism that was instantaneously exhausting the both of them emotionally. Watching the watermarks disperse and dissolve with a rueful sort of writhing beneath his breast, cardiac culpability converging with the downward pull of his face until it creased into a frown line. Coaxing his voice as gently as he could manage.

"Hey," he reached up, fingertips conscientious and only just connecting, the residual heat spreading from the other's skin before roughly pulling away.

"Don't  _touch_  me," his head snapped back, intonation harsh and the look in his eyes even harsher. No longer solid but melting like magma, molten gold, _lethal._ Maneuvering to his feet as fast as his body would allow. 

None of that halfway crap, like a fight or flight burst of energy that sure as hell wasn't going to render himself defenselessly to such bipolar sentimentality. Back turned and shirt riding up on the right side, the fraction of exposed skin so singularly distracting, crossing his arms and only making it worse. Blue eyes shamelessly getting lost in thoughts of perfect hips, the protrusion, the positioning, so well proportioned and just waiting to be pulled…

Fantasy reel looping into an unraveling distortion as something entirely emotionless interjected, "Just how long are you going to keep at it before finally realizing that you took it too far?"

" _Whoa,_ " Fushimi propped himself up, "why don't you back up a second there."

" _Oh_ , don't play dumb."

"Play dumb!? You  _tackled_  me!"

"I tripped."

Releasing a deep sigh, Fushimi leaned back on his elbows, eyes engaging the ceiling. "Fine, you tripped," he submitted. Growing partially self-conscious in his own right. "But that doesn't exactly explain the whole  _you flipping out,_ you know," unable to keep his inflection from falling more calculative and demeaning, "last time I checked, equilibrium and irrationality weren't positively correlated. But  _hey_ , you certainly seem convinced enough by whatever it is I'm clearly not seeing, so why don't you just go ahead and spell it out _._ "

Golden eyes gripped him prosaically, "Because I _clearly_ didn't want you listening to the rest of that song when it wasn't the right one," he answered, "as if you didn't already realize that before I even _thought_ to come after you." Even, unreceptive statements counteracting the comebacks and canceling them out while a measure of vociferousness rose more stridently in his throat, " _Maybe,_ because I _clearly_ wanted you to turn it off and you **_clearly_** went out of your way to do the **exact** _opposite,_ " his hands gesticulated with a vitriolic incontestability, " _ **Shocker**_."

"Oh, yeah,  _real shocker_ ," he  _tsk'd_ , rolling his eyes, "Misaki overreacting at every opportune moment."

" _Ohh_ , oh,  _me_?" Yata laughed condescendingly, "look who's talking  _Sa~ru~hi~ko,_ I'm only sorry I can't draw a few dozen  _knives_  to throw at your back while I'm at it."

"No," he glared, "just the inability to let _anything_ go."

"Hypocrite."

"Backslider."

Both sets of eyes locked in an infuriated standstill.

"You really are the worst," Yata broke contact first, "like it would've honestly killed you to hit pause or at least  _pretend_  like you cared how uncomfortable it was making me."

Fushimi, however, still upholding, eyes unmoving and mouth sewn into a stationary line, as if not to let anything else slip past him. Much too aware how violent and explosive they were bound to fire. Rapid rounds of ruthless, unthinking falsities intended to rip through his friend's already fragile willpower to keep gunning him down in his current state. Trigger finger fluctuating, accuracy off par, such a weakened caliber collecting resistance like rust. How fast they fell back into their false frameworks. So difficult to tear down what you had built brick-for-brick out of a skeleton graveyard, an inexhaustible stockpile of bones that only continued to grow. These intricately interwoven walls comprised of condescension and corroding callousness, corpses atop corpses collecting and resurrecting like automatic reflexes the minute their safety was threatened. The very second their sanctity was sacrificed, how they began to go up on all four sides like lincoln logs in adjacent patterns. Higher and higher as ordinary parapets fell too short of protecting and the necessity for battlements increased.

And instinct had not put them past the point of putting one another in the position for future casualty, nor had nostalgia totally melted suspicion into security, a sensation they'd been conditioned to assume was false, nine times out of ten. A lifetime of constant disappointment had taught them that much. The unfailing history of loss, a track record without equal. It wasn't the sort of thing you just _shook_ _off_ , and second nature was far less forgiving than a second chance. Proceeding insouciantly with this total lack of caution—there was no such thing for them, they'd lost that luxury. They had two choices, and they'd chosen wrong.

The rest was history.

The present became the past.

And the future had been stolen. 

The missing circuits for their faulty sixth senses. Bridges that kept breaking and giving way to burning rather than the room to build upon. The discontinuities that were left to drown. No point of intersection, no commonality when there was no longer ground. No reference or lack thereof capable of bending or birthing new lines, nor inconsistencies powerful enough to reverse the damage when all they truly had was the aftermath. The mess. The murder trail they'd left behind. There was no reaching out to the imaginary once your hands were covered in blood, through the divaricating meridian sacrificed to the boundless bifurcation.

The fifty-fifty chance of their system failing.

The exception for the exceptional, the submission to the subduction, they had once moved singularly. In sync. This staggering synchronistic that was truly something else entirely. A slow motion routine of incompatible style converging in the sudden flash of a throwing knife that gave everything to the fast forward, the baton-like-spinning of a baseball bat, an abstract adaptation to the dichotomy of a dance. One so uniquely complex, no one had ever been able to keep up, pining classical against makeshift, dexterity against dumb luck, even intimacy against isolation at one point as partners became a fated clashing of best friends and worst enemies fighting for representation.

And even then they collided with more or less brilliance, even  _then,_  there were far and few left between capable of rivaling their dynamic; yet, having fallen out of step themselves proved both difficult and dangerous, even if just for a moment. Causing immeasurable damage in either direction if, for even a split second, they'd missed a beat, skipped a step, and it was so terribly unclear whether or not they could stay in character long enough to pull this off. If breaking it would shatter the illusion, the unique balance, if this was dramaturgical or even real life anymore. Such a daunting prospect to put their faith in epilogs and sequels because both were conclusive,  _permanent,_   **determinative** , and the notion that they were already a little rusty insofar that it scared the hell out of them.

This change in direction, going off script, and the fact it had all happened so fucking fast, too infrequent and flippant for persons set so long to a single speed. Static characters stuck in shells, like cocoons they were too afraid to break through and let transform them. To live up to their responsibilities of landing leading roles, so much safer to play pretend as their own understudies than it was to do their part. To actually _be_ dynamic versus  _having_ one. Freaking out when suddenly they'd been called on stage, and the stage wasn't there, and there weren't any lines because the scripts had been scrapped, and there were no stage cues, no knowledge of duration, or how many acts. When was the intermission? And who was in charge of lights? Was this a Tragedy, a Comedy, a Tragicomedy!? Or no, a tragicomedy was a satire, right? _RIGHT!?_ Were they meant to conduct a farce, a work of fiction, or just stick to the facts? And when the _fuck_ did it get this hard?

The two of them frozen with a sort of stage fright they'd never experienced, the irony of clinging to chains that were no longer there because reality had lost its restraints and no one had told them. Reacting to what was going on like they were waking up in a war zone whenever the world got too close. Personalities raised in captivity and refusing to integrate with what they could no longer identify with, impersonating soldiers to cling to their excuses of experience having made them incompatible with civilian life. Keeping that prison mentality, safer on the inside, stick to what you know, avoid the outside, fear the unknown, do anything possible just to get thrown back in. 

Why would they ever want to leave? What was the benefit of breathing life into the pain? Of coming _back_ to life when it was so much easier being dead? Dead men don't keep promises, dead men don't even speak. Dead men sure as hell don't sit around going crazy in their heads with stupid, never ending monologs because they're afraid to cross the River Styx, they just place their coin in the ferryman's hand  _and shut the fuck up,_ Fushimi sighed to himself. But here they were, and there was no River Styx like there was no stage, and they weren't in a war nor obligated to memorize roles to play... _and now I'm rhyming in third-person narrator, not sure that really makes any sense, because I don't even know what the **fuck** I'm actually saying. _

_...And now I get a zero in simple rhyme schemes too, great..._

Fushimi shook his head internally, wondering if perhaps this wasn't just him, his thoughts, his feelings, but still bordering on the certainty it had to be mutual. Why else would Misaki be acting to dissimilarly similar? Whether or not all his metaphors were repetitive and complete shit didn't matter and he didn't care. Because all he knew was the very real crossfire and the very real fear fighting the very, very real loss of control that they were _very_ much caught between right now. The time that was passing them by while they pretended they had more important things to worry about, and that it wasn't running out. Himself included, even now, still tiptoeing along the precipice of this panic attack, still worrying, still trying to worm his way out and ensure his winnings while unable to stop checking the clock, the minute and hour hands still spinning so fucking fast, and no idea what to do with everything sitting right in front of him.

A large part of him subconsciously reaching behind his shoulder to find his strings, feeling vulnerable and knowing, in his own way, Yata just wanted to set the whole thing on fire and watch it burn to the ground too, because this fucking sucked, and they were both freaking out. Incapable of devising strategies or battle plans, of fortifying their defenses when, in actuality, there was no reason for either to consume them so readily.  How did you fight off something that was occurring naturally? How did you even notice it? Wasn't that the point of the organic versus the inorganic? That one was free-flowing and the other a forced mimicry? Hadn't he already firmly asserted they weren't a story as clearly as he was loosely contradicting it with the idiosyncratic? He couldn't help it, he supposed, never honing in on how to be apart of anything without a proper role to play first. Placement was everything after all, and without it, the world between them was left in total free fall. Rendered senselessly to the inevitability of a gravitational pull that sucked time and space into slow motion that moved at the speed of light, simultaneously pulling and protracting, abridged and unedited, opposition without paradox, absolutely no sense to be had whatsoever.

It was driving him mad.

Saruhiko had always had a clear grasp of his limitations and what he was capable of, ambiguity didn't fit, there was no room for it. And right now, Misaki was being _anything_ but clear, so a part of him finally abandoned this fear entirely, this sense of unknowing, he just didn't have enough forbearance left to keep holding onto the insanity that otherwise inhabited him. He needed answers, expansion, elaboration, _anything_. Despite the uncertainty, the omitted guarantee,  _there's no point in holding his hand now that we've come this far_ , he glanced at the other boy, his expression much the same, disapproving and contrived.  _You're not allowed to back out now just because you're a little embarrassed_ —the hypocrisy lost— _and you can't keep blaming me for every time you don't understand. If you wanted me to open up so damn badly, then stop holding it against me for being myself._ His own embarrassment and misunderstanding warping what was otherwise fair-game and forming logically, however when applied to this situational aberration, and their shared hatred for enduring the displeasure of defeat, level-headedness met defiance and merged into a pair of metaphorical hands that pushed back.

"Well, whose fault is that?" he asked pointedly. " _You're_  the one who handed it to me," volume dropping more reluctantly, "if the idea of me touching you is really  _that_  awful, then you could have just said so. You didn't have to slap me," he sat up fully, eyes averting somewhere off to the side in a silent  _tsk'ing_ that sounded more like a cringe, "you didn't have to make it sound so... _repulsive_."

"Like you didn't do the exact same thing." Yata deflected, absorbing the statement and taking on an identical tone, "Repeating all those lyrics," engaging the floor with a sullen frown. "It was supposed to be serious, something special to me and instead you made it into a joke, like my feelings were something to  _laugh_  at," back fully turning again and arms still tightly crossed. " _That's_ why I didn't want you listening to that  _stupid_  remix, I wanted you to hear the version  _I_ thought I was playing, because I wanted it to come out right, it was important."

"It just took me by surprise," Fushimi lost the majority of spite to that face he could hear in the way the words were all forming. "I wasn't expecting it, okay? Besides, I was about to stop anyways before you felt the sudden need to  _shove_  me down to the ground and  _straddle_ me. Talk about overki _—_."

"I'm a virgin, okay? _I get it_ ," Yata's inflection strained, shoulders tensing then drawing up to his ears as his neck shrank down into them; lips wriggling fixedly, trying to stomach the unspoken blow to his pride when he could hardly hold down the words. The kind that came out in a whisper, or may as well have, that unmistakable surrender that sounded a lot like defeat. "But how long does this joke have to go on running for, because it's not very funny…"

This sudden drop in demeanor and shift in subject matter catching Fushimi off guard.

"…it's not like I _couldn't—_ it's not like there haven't been _opportunities_ …"

 _So that's what this is all about,_ he thought, and had to fight off the sudden urge to sigh as his whole chest seemed to deflate with an understanding smile that went half way saddened,  _god, you're hopeless..._

Overlapping appendages going limp as Yata's confidence withered, then shaking as they extended along the incline of his biceps and clenched, nervous hands constricting and squeezing tightly.  _So self-conscious,_ Fushimi's head fell on an angle,  _I can't believe I actually forgot how shy you really are,_ tracing the tensing symmetry too paralyzed and indecisive to move on its own. The sight of Misaki holding himself so heartbreaking and hard to look at that it made him angry, how the other boy could be so blinded by self-doubt that he really couldn't see it. The sort of sensitivity towards his person Saruhiko had never understood, always so quick to discredit himself, to see nothing more than an inexhaustible series of imperfection and vast array of innumerable flaws,  _the stupidest thing I've ever heard,_ he scowled,  _tsk_ 'ing to himself, then sighing with the sort of honesty and admiration that made him shiver.  _You're perfect,_ he swallowed,  _you're the most perfect thing I've ever seen..._

A svelte body appeared beside the other boy, _and I'm going to prove it,_ Fushimi decided to himself, swallowing a lot harder this time.  Nervous, quiet, and avoiding the peripheral contact as he stared straight at the ground, "...you know I haven't either, right?" he asked softly.

It was an attempt to be comforting, but Misaki immediately lowered, head snapping in the opposite direction again, "well you don't have to make _fun_ of me."

"I'm not."

Flaxen irises reconnecting as his neck rolled back skeptically, " _Ahuh,_ sure."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Fushimi became both impatient and defensive, "So you just, just _assume_ that sort of thing about me, is that what you're saying?" Clearly flustered, or offended, or both, "based on _what_?"

"Based on _what_ ," the other scanned him up and down disbelievingly, "just _look_ at you!"

"Wh- _so _—__ Look at _you_ ," Fushimi countered, stumbling a bit to reciprocate the indication. 

He shook his head, "it's not the same thing…"

" _Look_ ," the other growled, growing frustrated, irritated, and unrightfully judged, already agitated to begin with and in no mood for playing games; inciting the rest in his most civil tone of voice as his hands came down on Misaki's shoulders, forcing them face to face, "you _really wanna know_ how far I've gone, since it's apparently _so important_ to you all of a sudden?"

Yata rolled his eyes, "Like you couldn't just easily lie, you're just trying to shut me up at this point, there's no reason to believe whatever you have to say."

"I disagree," Fushimi stood archly, taking advantage of his height.  

"E-excuse me?"

But Fushimi was no longer listening, single hand sliding along the side of his face until the tips of his fingers collided with the lighter strands, "I'm not giving you a choice."

"Like  _hell_ you're not. _"_

Ultramarine eyes delicate and unflinching.

"Seriously, Saru, what the actual  _hell?_ "

"Sorry in advance," he half-smiled guiltily.

"For wha _—"_  

"I can't guarantee you're going to like the answer," pulling forward and leaning down in a simultaneous sweep of motion.

" _Fushi—"_ melting into Misaki's mouth without another word _—mi..._

An indiscernible weight washing over the autumn-haired boy in an undertow of oceanic and incandescent sinuosity, like a meteoric collision against the sea—something soft and warm engaging him—the sudden inability to breathe—an unprecedented sensation rushing through him with a surge of pressure. _..but in the end it's too much...the currents too strong...even at the moment it engulfs us..._ Muscle memory failing like a full system overload. Knees getting weaker as he held onto the other's forearms for support, fingers clenching roughly, but not pulling away. _..in one sense it dwarfs us, and in another we master it...but unfortunately the clock is ticking...they've got to let go...drift apart..._ Frozen in place as Fushimi's free hand eased his body closer at the waist—proximity radiating with an upsurge of fission—the friction, the forcible tensing, unable to remember at what point he'd closed his eyes.

Inexperience and increased sensitivity overwhelming his ability to properly respond or refuse the paroxysms of indulgent, internal cues that had him automatically opening his mouth. The confusion, the heat, the sheer intemperance of something so innocent and so wrong fusing against him so ineffably he didn't know  _how_ to feel. The aftertaste of something— _someone_ —so familiar, and yet, unthinkably exotic dissolving into sudden curiosity, lingering on the tip of his tongue. The someone, that _something,_ Misaki suddenly found himself wanting to savor, gently pulling away and leaving him red in the face. Embarrassed, insecure, a little out of breath, and even more ashamed, heart racing and outpacing the ability to be physically confined to his chest.

"So, do you believe me now?" he asked, quieted and less cocky now, already prewiring to reroute the humiliation, the evidence he fought hard to ignore, leaving himself just enough space to shut down. More than half expecting Yata's ensuing rage to catch up and lash out at any given second, losing his shit and total self-restraint in response to something so unseemly—not exactly conventional—and a complete understatement of an invasion of personal space. But received none. Just this drunken stupor. Smaller hands still holding his wrists, such a disoriented, dangerously demure look in Misaki's eyes as they traveled upward and both the tightness and appetency grew in Saruhiko's chest when he struggled to speak. Opening and closing without a sound. " _Good, cause I really don't care,"_ Fushimi mumbled, mouth realigning more intimately this time.

Closed at first, just wanting to feel the opposing ridges conform and come together; driven by a desire so innocent he wasn't even embarrassed as he held it for a few seconds longer. Such delicate, gentle, pressure, but such a terrifying emotional complexity that even the sincerity was heavy. The grip around his wrists sliding up and burying into his arms—Yata desperately needing something steadier to anchor himself, knees going concave and bending into the opposing pair—his heart in his throat and his fingernails digging into Fushimi like claws. Intoxicatingly overwhelmed and asphyxiated all at once. Lips pressing softly in the beginning, seduced by the undeniable sensation of safety transferring from the contact, then harder at the invitation of Misaki's having parted so willingly for him, unable to conceive how they'd wound up like this. How their argument had played out and concluded with something as unimaginable as a kiss, but he honestly didn't care. He just wanted to kiss him, that's all, no words, no reasons, just the pressure of his best friend against him. What little time it had taken for the other to adjust, hands moving from his forearms to his waist to his hips, impatiently bringing their bodies closer. 

Repositioning and furrowing into his chest when Fushimi entertained the request—the urge to indulge such uncensored eagerness sending the blood rushing everywhere but their heads—one hand elevated and entangled through fiery hair, the other skillfully savoring the shapely protrusion of his hipbone like a handlebar. Steering everything below the waist into a series of steady motion. Misaki's lower body drawn forward then upward against the opposing figure without a second thought, shorter arms extending overhead and wrapping around the length of his neck. Tiptoes pushing back against the hardwood floor and sinking a little more forcefully into the exchange, lengthier appendages traveling up the curves of his abdomen, slinking under his arms and intertwining behind his back, lifting Yata into the full support of his body. A neediness somewhere in the way those hands began to slide through his hair, pulling Fushimi's face in closer so he could muffle the pleased, visceral little noises escaping him every so often. And the taller boy had no complaints. He liked the hungry, modest sort of way Misaki kept moving in and against his mouth to stifle each shy, reactive sound, began to bend his body into the the hands along his torso until their limbs tangled into something so invasively formfitting. So cruel and unusual the way he couldn't deny him. 

Kiss deepening, so slow and drawn out, wedging between logic and instinct, greedily pulling at the other, lips caressing and consuming him insatiably.  Lost in the moment of something so forward it was unfamiliar, and so forced it was too disorienting to think through. An unwilling sort of compliance that took too long to realize had been entirely consensual. But as they lost themselves to the convergence of confusion and corresponding clashing of unresolved tensions and unclear degrees of feeling, the temporary rift in time caught up and didn't quite align. Fantasy and reality furiously refusing one another like two opposing magnets as Misaki struggled to catch his breath. The anxiety that overtook him, the frantic pressure that was beginning to resist the advances that only escalated against the application of increased force, Fushimi's actions devouring him in an almost primal manner. 

His grip nothing short of gluttonous, losing sight of anyone but himself. Ravishing the resistance, refusing the distance. Hands on either side of Yata's face regardless of the fact the other boy had begun to struggle, all attempts thwarted like a computer program override. Recursion recurrently sifting through a series of functions to resolve the problem, pulling the smaller boy back into him, this uninhibited mixture of lust and pure emotion robbing him of his senses.  _Trying to hold on...the possibilities decreasing, the regrets mounting...being led on and on..._ into the sound of the Siren's song that had lured him so very far out to sea _...the water moving really fast..._ lost in the total loss of control. Of the years spent waiting. Wanting. And not quite understanding why until now. The knowledge that he had crossed a line, the Rubicon, a point from which there was no return. Never his intention to be so brute, but more so that scared little boy he'd always been inside desperately clinging to the intimacy he'd internally craved for more than half his life.

"Stop," Yata breathed heavily, too akin to a sigh, too much pleasure in the way the words were escaping his lips, and only met with the murmur of  _no_ , then  _please_.

 _"Please,"_ Fushimi begged, not forceful, but fearful, desperate, " _don't make me stop."_

The smaller boy struggled, limbs rearranging in a defensive stance, both hands pressing back against the other's chest, "S-stop, Saruhiko _stop._ "

"Misaki, _please_ ," he breathed deeply, sensually ghosting against the edges of his lips.

"I said, **STOP** ," Yata shoved him away, right hand smacking Fushimi roughly across the face, practically seething. Exhaling laboredly as he covered his mouth with the other, digits pressed against his lips like they burned—as if the entirety of the action had become suddenly unspeakable. Features formatting with the semblance of revulsion, chest rising and falling angrily, eyes poised and narrowing in on the other sharply while a look of immense sadness overtook the taller boy's face. The instantaneous evaporation of the intimacy—the connection broken—more alone than he'd ever felt before. Such confusion and hurt leftover in his eyes that, for a second, Misaki hardly recognized him, and it left an immeasurable pang of guilt that resonated throughout his entire body.

"Misa-"

"I think you should go," he stammered.

"Mi-"

" _Leave."_

Fushimi began to reach forward, hesitant and confidence clearly shot. "—"

"JUST GET OUT, FUSHIMI," Yata snapped, or screamed, shouted, he couldn't tell, but his intonation was something awful, and it left the other in what he could only describe as a million pieces, continuously fracturing.

Raven colored hair disheveled and falling across clouded azure eyes, like he used to wear it, like staring at a ghost, pupils dilating and constricting as they refocused painedly against his own, furrowing sadly as his brows knitted and his lips pressed together with a slight waver. A face he _never_ wore. A face that neither of them was aware he had until now. Something so lost and wounded and completely out of character, neither shallow, nor shorebound, nor shifting atop the surface. Not the same as earlier, when he'd shed tears, or shouted, or submitted that softer side of himself. No, this was the sight of shattered stained glass that had yet to fall from its tracery, something beautifully dismantled that wasn't your property to destroy in the first place, leaving a shame-stricken churning in the smaller boy's stomach because he was now staring down the face of a perfect stranger. No semblance of familiar features, no immediate inflection—just an eerie silence and empty eyes that had lost sight of what to search for.

"Just go," he whispered quietly, shuffling his feet.

Fushimi continued to stare blankly.

Yata glanced with upturned eyes, voice scarcely audible, " _go_."

 _It's_ ** _my_** _apartment_ , is what he'd wanted to say, _so_ ** _you_** _leave_ — _the doors right where you left it, so go on,_ Fushimi attempted to glare, _GET OUT._ Too disoriented to even implicate a hypothetical _tsk,_ let alone vocalize it. Lost in the pitfalls of the most foreign emptiness he'd ever felt congealing in the center of his chest. The dew-like-liquescence pooling in the eyes no more than centimeters away from him as the temperature dropped and the atmosphere surrounding them began to condensate. His own included. _GO. LEAVE._ He felt his bottom lip quiver involuntarily, _leave and don't_ ** _ever_** _come back,_ bringing it between his teeth. _Just get as far away as you fucking can,_ Fushimi wanted to scream, wanted to feel the spite slide up and coat his throat as the words flew forth like shrapnel. Wanted to smash his fist straight through the misty, slow streaking watermarks escaping Misaki's eyelids like melted candle wax—uneven and overflowing as they stared back at him vacantly. _I don't EVER want to see you again._ But his tongue had gone limp, and the words never came.

The very spectrum of brilliance he prided himself on having betrayed him and gone completely blank. His body and brain no longer in sync. The sharp pulsations that refused to solidify forcing him to feel, to feel something he wasn't sure he'd ever felt. Something restricting, a sort of tightness that caused his stomach muscles to constrict, forcing his upper body to bend inward as if to stomach or suppress this intangible pain he'd never known. Had never known _anything_ could hurt this bad and feel so empty at the same time. Growing furious without any ferocity, harboring the instinctual reflex to retaliate but realizing he hadn't the confidence to elicit the conviction. Just a face that felt heated and a chest ready to rip itself apart like an explosive cardiac chamber he'd never noticed the blue and red wires running through, his stomach heavy, his mouth dry, thoughts scattered, logic lost, _just another day in the fucking life,_ he thought angrily. Staring at the other boy flatly, the look on his friend's face one that made him feel self-conscious, stupid, like such a fucking idiot, feeling this unfamiliar, thorn-like prickling in the corners of his eyes. That moment when you realize any set of words could supply the trigger, one of those situations where you know you _could_ cry, and you're trying not to, but if that one song plays, or that one fucking relative reaches out to give you a hug then you're just gonna _fucking_ **lose** _it._

And he wouldn't give Misaki the goddamn satisfaction.

So he cleared his throat as his voice cracked and his stomach constringed with self-reproach. "Don't be here when I get back," Fushimi announced, "I mean it," he forced the declarative shift, abruptly turning his back and grabbing a set of keys and a fresh cigarette pack off his dresser before slamming the door. Shaking the whole apartment as Yata slowly crumpled, cascading to the floor on his knees and covering his face without the faintest idea what _the fuck_ just happened.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued; Until Next Time, Folks! Hopefully that wasn't too bad. Your continued support is ever appreciated, kudos, reviews, even if you just so happen to read five lines and go, "fuck this," all that counts to me is you gave enough of a hoot to try. Thanks again :)


	4. Part Four.1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Sigh* Bear with me. (part one: Fushimi). refer to beginning of the chapter rambling for more detail.

**=** **͟͟͞͞** ( **Ff** ⤻ **ZOOM** 彡 \●﹏●/ **“HURRAY, progress! Two chapters, Yata chapter, how GREAT!”**

(°ᴗ ° ) … **ヘ** **(** ≖⌓≖ **ヘ** **)** …ヘ **(•̀д•́** ヘ **)**

***months of incremental changes and fucking everything up with multiple versions…”**

●_●

MONTHS.

it’s been MONTHS.

( **(** ≖ **_** ≖ **) Okay, really, it can’t be that bad.**

**=** **͟͟͞͞** **(** ╯ **•̀д•́)))** ╯彡 ** _BULLSHIT!_**

**_*ahem*_ **

**(°ロ°)☝** SO, remember when I said nothing would **_ever_** look like the first chapter? _Well._ I’m a fucking liar.  **s( ^** **‿** **^)-p** But I’m sick of rereading drafts/versions/and second guessing slash changing my mind every week because I **LOVE** PART FIVE! (I tried to wait till it WAS done to post these, but, it's not exactly working out that way lol) And it’s almost one hundred percent done, and has been more or less, since way before part four. But didn’t fit. And I needed a sort of intermission, so I made this two-pronged, alternating character perspective reactive chapter.Yata’s turned out infinitely better than Fushimi’s, that convoluted bastard cough _akaME_ cough. Even AFTER I added more to it in attempts to sort of match, or even out the lengths. STILL PERFECT. Well, not _perfect_ , but you know what I mean.

So, they may be ‘isolated’ updates, but both have consistantly conversational tones? If that makes sense, hah, thank god for talking to imaginary versions of your best-friends or past-selves, I guess. Plus they both have a flash-back thrown into the mix, well Fushimi’s is a sort of flashback, Yata’s has a legit flashback, sort of progressing the plot I actually had. However, forgetting I wrote like some 90 page poem when I started to write this, that like, constituted half of my main points, and started to figure out after I’d shared it that they were WAY harder to then translate and revert into story form. (sigh). BUT, I’m doing my best, and the next chapter is dope. Haha. Can you say drunk Munakata? _Because, I CAN!  
_

* * *

  _So yeah. First part: Fushimi, Second Part: Yata._  
_  
_ *Also, very first part of Fushimi's is obviously SUPPOSED to look super fucked up and scattered. _Blah blah_ , reflecting his current mental state, so to speak, and indicative of an almost poetry-based-format? It's not very long, that part, and pretty easy to read, kind of like the song chapter, where shxts spaced from right indented, centered, and left indented. **ALSO, ALSO:** both of the chapters are intended to sort of mirror one another, if you start to notice structural similarities, that's intentional lol. And if nothing else, CHAPTER/PART FIVE.  ** _CHAPTER/PART FIVE._** lol. It's gonna be. GREAT.

* * *

_Special thanks to **SilverThunder** and  **Fanged Funeral** for leaving  **kudos**! _

(* ˘⌣˘)◞[_]♥[_]ヽ(•‿• ) 

_Cheers! You guys are dope. Lol, seriously, though, thank you, I really appreciate it!!_

_*for once, you can find comment reviews just in their normal archive area, but for the sake of your awesomeness, another thank you to **SilverThunder** for leaving me some hella awesome feedback in that last comment, as always :]  
_

* * *

So yeah, enjoy, lol. And _just remember_. **Drunk**.  _Munakata._

**_oOo..._**  且⊂(ﾟ∀ﾟゞ)  _MUNAKATA, READY!  
_**_  
_** ( ﾟД ﾟ)⊃且 **_FUSHIMI!_** = ( ￣～￣) ***** ggrmmm *****

\\( ﾟД ﾟ)⊃旦  ** _LEZGETSHWASTED!_**  \\(;￢_￢|) I  **fucking.**   _hate._  you

**旦 …◷…且...◵…[_]**... **◶..且…◴…旦**

且_( ;°o°)ノﾞ _!HO, HO, SCEPTER FOUR, I'm Munakata! ReAdYyYy!  
ALCOHOL. JUSTICE. .SWORDS! GLASSES! UNIFORMS!  
MORE BOOZE! DAMOCLES! I KILLED A MAN!_ 且_(￣ ___ ￣; ) ***dear…fucking… _lord_ ***

….(*✧ OДo)⊃旦  ** _I SAID DRINK!_** 且_(· _ · )  _"No, no I think I'm good."_

**_*~mmMMMmmmMMMmmm~*_ **

( / ∩＼) please no.

**_*~doDodoDoDo-Uh-uhh-Uh-uHuHuhhh~*_ **

_**APPLE**_ ┗(⁎˃ᆺ˂)┛ **BOTTOM** ┏( _△_)┓ _ **JEANS**_ ┗( ˘⌣˘)┛ _ **BOOTS**_

_**WITH THE FURRRR**_ _₍₍ ◝_ ( ●0○ ) _◟ ⁾⁾ **THE WHOLE CLUB WAS...**_

**旦** =͟͟͞ヘ( •︿•)ง =͟͟͞͞ _PEACE_

_(Sigh). Okay. Well it won't be THAT crackfic-fun, bahah, not sure Munakata shakin' it to old school T-Pain would help Fushimi, let alone ANYBODY, recover from **anything.**  Except maybe ever having to see again, since the crippling fear of EVER opening your eyes after that might be inevitable, haha. That could still solve your problems, though, right? Hah just never face them again! The Munakata-Solution-Free of Charge-...Except That Running Tab (and  **ps** ; the bar only takes cash)_

WOW.  _Not funny_. I seriously have to learn not to talk to myself with ceaseless amusement so much/often/frequently (sigh), that's what happens when you live with a cat and a bearded dragon and your endless fanfiction crack-headed-canon-self-created-scenarios and persistent 48 hour periods without sleeping (sigh). Go ahead. Please judge me. I do. haha.

* * *

 ╔═. ✔.═══════════════╗  
 ℘ᴚ⌭⒨ꟾ§⧢ˢ ₩ℝℹʇᵀƐƞ ◴Ͷ Ϣ⎀Ͳǝℛ.ℙʇ⦁⓸⦁½  
 ╚═══════════════. ✘ .═╝  
  
┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄❮❰❬⸨❨❪⸦⧉⸧❫❩⸩❭❱❯┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄

**❝Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us** ρ **ҳ** ↑η **and allow us to enjoy** þ **L** ℯaˢ **ಇ** **ᴚ** ⱻ  **instead.** **We must, therefore, accept it, ~~without complaint~~** ,  **when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality,** **against which they are _dashed_  to** ꟼ|ꟾ|⏙|©|∄|₴ **.❞**  
  _-Sigmund Freud_  
  
┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄❮❰❬⸨❨❪⸦⧉⸧❫❩⸩❭❱❯┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄

* * *

_**x=͟͟͞͞** ( **SLAM** )_

The door frame shook.

  _"Don't be here when I get back..."_

Reverberations chasing city blocks, 

  
~~_"...I mean it."_  ~~

The mental contamination of knowing   
**exactly**  what he'd left on the other side. 

_Why._  

Corrosive. Incapable. Inabilities killing him, then cutting him in half;  
Conjecturing, _No Rectification for,_  the reflections of.  
_Things that can never be whole again._  

The walls weren't that thick,  
 and one his windows was broken.   
He'd heard it clearly.

_Why?_

So  _mother fucking_  clearly. 

Inexorable.  
_WHY_.

Insanity was incurable.    
_WHY, WHY,_ ** _WHY!?_**

****That fucking _window,_  a liability.

Visibility reduces-Audibility resonates.

Of  ** _all_**  the things he hadn't fixed.

The reechoing was everywhere.  
  
_…why?_

The most  _awful_  noise. The  ** _only_**  noise.

_just._

_why…_

A paralysis. 

  
 A poison.

~~Cutthroat~~ |Underhanded| _Ensnaring_. 

_Why_   ** _that_**?  
   Literally  _anything_  else.  
And it would have been okay.

His thoughts scattering, mind maddening.  
Feet against some foreign stretch of pavement.   
Smoking a cigarette, trying to suffocate his fixations.

_Why the_ **_fuck_  ** _did it have to be_ **_that_ ** _._

Stomach compressing.  
Forgetting to breathe.  
Dizzy, nauseous.  
Like he was about to be sick.

His insides like a riptide.  
The mouth of an estuary.  
These abrupt changes in depth.  
Where the tide met the river current.

A violent disturbance of the sea.

 And if seeing was feeling,  
and feeling was knowing  
then he had no idea how he felt  
or where the  _fuck_  he was going.

All overridden by the undertow of what he was hearing,  
pushed and pulled, dragged down and swallowed.  
He lit another cigarette,  _ALL the cigarettes_.  
So unarmored. So exhausted. Just the illusion  
of something rising to the surface. 

Something other than  _that_.   
_Why. WHY._ ** _WHY._**

His chest so desperate to ruminate  
what the rest of him was running away from.  
He was officially losing it,  
assuming he'd ever  _had_ it.  
Clenching his teeth.  
_Tsk. So._ ** _STUPID._**

The method of mental clock hands  
submerged underwater.  
Always so uneven.  
So unsynchronized.   
He couldn't win.  
Could never get far enough ahead. 

Before something struck.  
Settled. _Sank._ Shook him for granted.  
_Why not?_ He was used to it.  
Feeling so heavy.  
The flashback panic attack.

Pause.  **Stop**.  _Rewind_.

Wondering how everything had gotten flipped so  _fucked-side-down_.

He felt pathetic.  
... **why**... 

Clouded blue eyes temporarily closing,   
cringing. It refused to stop replaying.

_Why did it_  have  _to be **that**?_

  
**┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄**  
Approximately 15 Minutes Earlier  
**┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄**

That strangled, choking sound. The delicate declension of something small and fragile hitting the ground; his shoulders tensing, turning away with a hardened  _tsk_. An ineffective callous to an evanescent influx of ambivalence, feelings lost in translation, counterchanging and evaporating. Too irritated to be convincing this time, his dramatic exit losing all effect to the interruptive, uncontrolled hiccuping noises—untempered and ruinously proxemic. These repeated series of reflective, refracting inconsistencies in Misaki's implied breathing temporarily freezing him. Hearing without meaning to listen, listening without meaning to hear, and not supposed to still be there to do either, his presence unbeknownst to the other boy. 

Having gotten no farther than the first step. Body reversing, subliminal, visceral, hand outstretched and reaching for the handle, hesitant and hovering as the vociferated utterances grew louder and less audible by force. His instinctual reaction, the conditioned memory of his muscles, to gravitate towards the stimulus. The failure of the other boy to hold it inside that automatically cued the amelioratory response to try and fix everything. So backwards and such a big mess this was all making.  _Fuck_ , a softer, slower clicking of his tongue interjecting as he closed his eyes… _fuck…_ A rueful sort of worry, the reflexively plaintive interjection, wondering how many clenches had rendered this. How few, or if any at all. Before suddenly growing furious with the fact he was crying at all. That he'd really almost been stupid enough to walk back inside the threshold and further be made _more_ a fool of. 

_What reason do_ ** _you_** _have to cry_ , he _tsk’d_ again, irascible and ripping abruptly from the protective stance, set back in motion, closing the space towards the staircase, _I’m not the one who pushed you away, you simpleminded idiot, I don't owe you a goddamn thing._ **_Tsk_**. _Feeling sorry for yourself and sniveling like this was all_ ** _my_** _fault,_  Fushimi breathed heavier. You _rejected_ me, _so keep your clenches and your cowardice and your meaningless, sorry-for-yourself sniffling_. 

Taking them by two; firmer in his convictions as he descended. 

_Have your cake and eat the consequences while you're at it too—_ heavier and heavier until his lungs felt like they were on fire— _I hope you_ ** _choke_** _on them. I hope it feels_ **horrible _._** _I hope you know that_ **no one's** _coming,_  he cursed. _You can have_ ** _all_** _of it._ _All your insecurity and your weakness and your confusion and your crying and your pretending_ **so _hard_** _like you actually '_ ** _care'_** _, take it. I don't need it. I don't want it. Keep it and don't ever give it back. Don't try, don't call, don't_ **ever** , he tore his hand away from the railing, this godawful tightness in his chest, _if you think for a second, even a_ millisecond _, that I give a_ ** _damn_** _about you right now, how_ you _feel, after you go and pull some_ ** _shit_** _like_ that _._

Shoving both hands in his pockets,  _un-fucking-believable,_ Fushimi thought infuriately, _stuck out here in the middle of the street with fucking_ nowhere _to go. Freezing my ass off while_ you _hole up in_ **my** _apartment,_  another jolt of heat and anger overriding the last, looking around blankly in annoyed confusion,  _why_ am _I out here?_ The delayed reaction towards the stupidity of his own compliance in having left on his own initiative eluding him until right now, adding even more insult to an already gaping injury.  _I should have just thrown you out. I could have_ easily _just thrown you out instead_ , the taller boy thought back irritatedly, vexed by his lesser than suboptimal performance. 

So stupidly submissive, like he were this subsidiary force of secondary rank in comparison to what he knew was no match for him. Confident that he could've easily shutdown all of Yata’s strength even _if_ he couldn't speak—that had  _nothing_  to do with his ability to effortlessly gain the upper-hand in a fight, though.

The harsh throbbing along his jaw overlapping with his thoughts, the phantom pressure of hands letting go recreating unmistakably against his chest, confident he was lying at least. Clutching the space, staring at the ground, just sizing himself up to forget the fact he'd already lost. 

Throwing his weight around like a trigger-happy-psychopath, no appraisal for the situation, no tact, no concern for the fact his actions were no different than waving a loaded gun without the _safety_ on, no fucks given for the fact he didn’t know the first thing about how to use one, just how goddamn eager his index finger felt wrapped around around the cold metal curvature; itching to pull back and release the spring-loaded round of an adrenaline rush so badly he just couldn’t wait any longer. Jumping the gun—quite literally and terrible _pun_ intended—never realizing this was _Russian Roulette_ against his own reflection and he’d shot himself in the face.

He was so much better with knives, after all. 

He kicked a patch of upturned grass with his foot, _must be why I’m so brilliant at_ ** _cutting_** _ties and_ ** _severing_** _connections,_ Fushimi thought dryly, but still clutching his chest. _“I’m only sorry I can't draw a few dozen_ **knives** _to throw at your back while I’m at it,”_ his subconscious stirred steadily into the recollection of the most spiteful sound; _yeah, that too,_ he dwelled, _back stabbing._

Too much simultaneous pressure and absence exerting and extinguishing itself back against his figure in the form of a perfect fit—the pull that paused and came to push—of smaller but strong able hands—of someone who had gone missing—the fact that he could remember the sensation of being let go far more exclusively than anything else. 

What had once clung to his body pleasantly, with that needy, curious impatience, never more repulsed and resistant, Fushimi's stern expression struggling to remain fixed, scrunching into an uncompromisable frown, throat tightening, just the way they'd pushed back, even the enmity couldn't dissuade it from his face. His fingers clenched, it was like a life or death energy reserve had activated, that's how much force had gone into it. Yata had always been strong, sure, but this was something else altogether, not just the dismissal of his size. 

This was survival, fight or flight, the desperate need to be as far as fucking _humanly_ possible away from him. 

Yes, he'd made that point _terribly_ clear, the dispersion of the memory melting into this nightmarish hell that was still no more than fifteen feet from where he was standing. Separated by the yellow brick road of good intensions that paved the path like a self-fulfilling prophecy he’d followed straight into it. His whole feel for the situation totally thrown off, unable to gather intelligence from a professional standpoint because it was too personal and his feelings kept getting in the way. A blank report, the only instance he could remember having been unable to complete such routine analysis with his usual efficiency. 

It was just too different, incomparable to any of their past scuffles; and they’d had more than _just_ a few, and they’d been a hell of a lot more brutal than just _scuffles_. They had their own, totally separate database, an endless archive of examples and instances that went flashing through his mind in representative degrees of variance; _but they weren’t even a fraction of this…_ he swallowed.

_Not even that night…_ hand absentmindedly having repositioned. Scratching at the scar beneath his collarbone, fingertips etching away at the risen bars of skin and foreign burning sensation that ignited from within the insignia, _it_ hadn’t bothered him quite like this in awhile either. Hadn’t felt this burning pain resonate so deeply since the night Mikoto Suoh’s aura rose  from his clansmen, and that was two years ago. And Fushimi had been one of them, and although the alive-like, almost consciousness he swore resided in the symbol that afflicted him with the unexplainable from time to time still came and went, he’d been certain that the distinct _burning_ had died with the third king. The Red King. His first king. 

A combination of unsettling and equally unpleasant factors all factoring into an improper fraction of _unanswerable_ over _fact._  It wasn't right. The facts were set in stone, representative of the total of equal parts that comprised the whole, so extracting the answers should have been surefire, there was a limit, and yet, the numerator, the number of parts, the blanks he couldn't fill, continued to rise. If you had five facts and three questions, _3/5'ths_ , you would have had five facts from which you extracted three answers; reverse it, and you got  _5/3'rds_ , five items without answers, and only three facts from which they could correspond. Exceeding the denominator by far more than seemed logical, because set units of a whole meant set parts should have fit; but rather, the indefinable overwhelmed the definitive….even though mathematical formulas were his  _shit_ , and Fushimi could calculate just about anything if given the equation.

…so clearly  _fractions_  were no  _Achilles' Heel_ , and even improper fractions weren't actually _improper,_ just top-heavy, completely legitimate, easily convertible, four standard steps and simply written as a mixed number instead.

_Numerator-Greater or Equal To-Denominator VS Quotient, Remainder, and Divisor—AKA one-part integer and one-part fraction_ , he summarized.  _Plus, either way, they're equivalent, and to be honest, improper fractions are far easier to use than mixed numbers anyways._

But that was math, those were numbers, mechanical, unchanging, the same no matter where you went or who used them, he could  _do_  numbers—it was this abstract shit he still couldn't wrap his head around all the time, emotions, fluid, hazardous, flippant things they were. And they'd baffled even the beautiful simplicity of one of his sharpest skills; complicating the process when he realized he'd have to divide the differences, have to dig deeper, discover the whole truths, the completed pieces, then redistribute the rest into fractional parts of that whole…unless it was negative…in which case, well, mathematically, nothing, symbolically,  _fuck if he knew_. 

Or maybe it was more appropriate to use ratios?  **Unanswerable** : **Fact.**  Since the totals were relative—but did they share a common measurement? How do you measure what lacks quantitative designation? And how the hell did he get so mind fucked by simple math?

_Fuck words_ , he shook his head, pretending they had anything to do with his poor choice of comparison turned something he hadn't intended to elaborate upon, and upon doing so, epically failed. Part of him still trying to fix the logical flaws, trying to function within his desired capacity, compatible speed, a system that was proven or disproven indefinitely, something that always gave him an answer. Incremental steps. Proof. Verification of accuracy. Closure. But his head was already throbbing, maybe because he didn't realize he was contradicting his own methodology by doing the opposite, taking the roundabout, trying to force two things he knew didn't belong together and pretending like he expected to produce results.

Why?

Simple.

Because it was easier than thinking about Mikoto Suoh. Abandoning efficiency and getting mind-fucked by simple math were both infinitely preferable to remembering the late Red King—an irrelevant subject of its own weight that had slipped into his mind somehow, too sloppy to prevent it, and not mentally fit to confront it yet either, so he deviated. And the crest against his chest emblazoned with another surge of out-of-body internalized burning and a phantasmagoric _fuck you_ , as if to remind him. As if he'd forgotten. That anything was easier than thinking about Misaki. Even at the expense of digging up vastly deeper graves buried in the back corners of his mind. Even if for nothing more than the fleeting reward of a mere five-minute intermission, not even fit to be called an actual distraction, it was still easier than those hands.

That… _ferocity_ …Fushimi's upper eyelids slanted down in synch with the curve of his mouth, lips pressed together but pulling at the corners. The inner arch of his eyebrows rising and drawing closer together, the details attempting the most rudimentary subdividing. 

The fact the other had never shown him that level of emotion before, brows continuing to rise until they created tension, realizing the fact that there was no prerequisite for that forcefulness anywhere in their past interactions. _What am I supposed to do with that?_ he methodically repeated the motions, probing and scratching at the scar tissue, evident creasing beginning to curve and ascend into furrows in his forehead,  _has he been holding back?_

_No. Impossible,_  he shook his head, the sort of sentiment that made him go to smile, but his lips wouldn't upturn,  _he's not smart enough to be anything but reckless, and too reckless to go anything but all out._ And it was of increasingly little comfort that the only commonality they all shared—all those times they'd clashed and come to blows—that tonight didn't, was that they'd all taken place when they'd been fighting, when Yata had been hurt and hated him most, which meant this _one_ , singular night had been worse than all the others and the past four years combined.

And that one simple detail left only one other corollary, and collectively, that only meant _one_ thing...the conclusion temporarily interrupted by the sound of a door unlatching, his heart catching and skipping a beat, embarrassed by how eagerly he'd turned around, making the most awkward eye-contact as it sank all the way back down into his stomach. Startling one of his miscellaneous neighbors he didn't know by name, who was now staring back confusedly at the sight of Fushimi's head snapping in the other direction with hard, downwardly drawn,  ** _TSK_. ** Tensing his shoulders as they lifted and locked, fists clenched in forced reticence and shaking at his sides to keep his body steady until they were safely out of sight, the conclusion more final than ever, frustrated, eyes gradually welling with an angry, indefinable sort of emotion as he cursed loudly and kicked over a nearby trashcan with full force. 

Chest rising and falling with the breath he'd been holding in,  _like something like that was_ ** _ever_** _going to happen_ —his eyes like faded, deep-blue tanzanite, crystal fragmented lightning strikes—fierce, pleochroic flashes of contrasting saturation as they caught the light and Fushimi recoiled— _did you_ ** _really_** _think he'd come bursting through the door five minutes later on the_ ** _off chance_** _you'd still be here?_ Starting to subvocalize into a snarl, canines slightly visible in the corners as his lips pried apart, eyes swelling like the sea, the tempest of tension around them violently raging in an unremitting storm.

"You _blew it!_ " he shouted at himself, silenced and voice hitching, "you _fucking_ idiot.”

_Like you could just_ ** _show up_** _one day, out of the blue like this wasn't still reality,_  his eyes went sharp,  _cluster fuck your feelings into the implied meaning of some cliché, bullshit, grandiose gesture, and then pretend like he wanted_ any _of it—_ breaths quickening in the absence of oxygen, the unrelenting pulmonary thrashing throwing him off balance— _like he was supposed to just_ ** _accept_** _them and be happy because you tried your_ ** _hardest_** _. God_ , hysterical fingers threaded through his hair and then slid down his face to suppress the bitter functional obsolescence threatening to mutate into uncontrolled, self-assailable laughter,  _did you think that's how this was going happen?_ _Did you think that's how anything was going to work out for_ ** _you_** _? That your 1.5 good deeds for the day were just going to magically be enough to make up for—_ how many _years worth of lost time,_ again _?_

_Oh, right. Fucking_  all _of it._

The storm that raged like a temperamental oceanic disaster in his irises having died out, lips tugging downward on one side and eyes reverting to a shallow, reddening, reflective,  _pane in the ass_ , the quiver of indignation throughout his limbs infuriating him. Re-clenching his fists in an immature upheaval,  _FOOSH. YOU. SARU. EXCUSE.,_  he felt his chest practically explode, unable to help the way the words fell so indicative of earlier in the day. Frowning at the nickname, the first name abbreviation, for thinking,  _I didn't even use my whole name_ , and then automatically going to _tsk._  

Like this had been another playlist, like it hadn't been the shit word play of his own making, like there was another person in this dilapidated, decaying brain of his that was going to belt out laughing and never let it go, repeating the combination in a taunting sing-song. And Fushimi's knuckles started to restrict blood flow, pulsing and going pale. Knowing somewhere, part of him had only said it, because he would have loved it.

Still trying to actualize his fucking delusions,  _seriously, what world are you living in?_  he wrenched his gaze into the distance in the form of a daggers, sharp, thoroughly despising, and throwing them like knives into nothingness. _What's_ ** _wrong_** _with you? Is that really all you wanted? What you've fucking reduced the meaning of life into? Some deluded fantasy? That you could just get exactly what you wanted_ ** _just_** _because you wanted it, without having to do any of the work?_

_Go read a_ fucking _fanfic,_  he spat, so angry for getting his hopes up, for being so irresponsible and thinking any of this was going to be easy, that whatever he did would ever be _enough._   _Y'know what, better yet, you ought to go write the damn thing yourself,_ _if all you wanted was a five-step fairytale, you’re already halfway there._

"FUCK," he wound back up and kicked the receptacle another couple of feet, not caring how loud he was being, putting himself down and beating himself up because he couldn't stand this unbearable watering. The _fluttering,_ naive spark he'd felt light up and extinguish on the whim of worthless notions he'd never  _once_  believed in. And all for the sake of not having to believe anything that just happened had been true, that it hadn't just happened, building up in vain with fierce refusal, before respiring with rounded eyes that watched the ground again, a frown that wavered up into a forced smile and fell into another tremble, the part of him that couldn't hold back the disappointment. 

Having honestly expected to see Yata standing there, waiting for him when he'd turned back. Wishing so badly that he had been. Part of him still hopeful, still convinced maybe Misaki really would appear if only he would just wait a little longer, he laughed, small and hardly audible,  _you're pathetic,_ he closed his eyes, folding into himself,  _he's not chasing after you this time._

Feeling so unclear and clouded, convoluted and heavy, so hard to relate to himself. Everything he'd done, the way he felt, an undeniable betrayal to the proud, confident person Fushimi had always considered himself to be. Transitioning in infuriatingly equal proportionality from apathy to heartbreaking anguish back to anger and disbelief for how quickly he'd been willing to throw away everything painful he'd felt so unquestioningly just if it meant Yata would take him back. The fact that part of him still would, wished they really _were_ some stupid fucking fanfic, movie, nonsensical shit-for-brains scenario where everything magically fixed itself.

Just forgetting like it didn't hurt more than anything the way he'd given in only to give it back thirty seconds later, like he'd needed the unnecessary time to toy with him to decide, and his final decision to give him up and get rid of him. Telling him to get out. To leave. And the fact Fushimi had been all too eager to let him. " _Just_ look _at you,"_  a snippet of dialogue irrelevantly interceding into all the improper contexts, unsteady airwaves inhaling at inconsistent rates as Fushimi fumbled with the lighter in his hand. Struggling to light the cigarette as if the object were something foreign, all familiar processes becoming difficult and backwards,  _am I really just that easy after all then? Is that it?_ An almost shameful heat creeping up into his ears, prickling his scalp. _I guess I must be_ , he winced a little,  _no,_   _I know it. And I am. Probably the easiest,_   _hands_  down  _the easiest_ , Fushimi gave a little half smile, releasing something akin to a low, mirthless sort of laugh,  _I'm so fucking easy it makes me sick,_  he dragged unsteadily. 

Exhaling insecurely with the encumbrance of pressure that had diluted from shame and embarrassment into something much more dismal,  _only for you, though_ , Saruhiko sighed, chest shaking as his whole body began to do the same, _only ever for you_ , his lips parted in a waver, continuing to drag his cigarette while his hand trembled against the filter, destabilizing fingers causing it to wobble.  _Nobody else could ever get me to do the all stupid shit you make me do,_  the corners of his eyes creased sadly,  _make me_ want _to do…_ and he was tempted to look back, but the offense had sprouted a leak, starting to lose feeling, obscured by the smoke, _how could you ever believe any differently? How can you doubt me?_

He laughed a little, insincere and in-genuine, such empty noise; the sadness of it all corroding against his insides, it was a stupid question on his part, poorly worded, but, even if he hadn't always been the most reliable, dependable, or trustworthy of personalities, surely the extent of the other's importance couldn't be so easily dismissed? When he had never once made even the slightest attempt to hide it, or ever done a very good job, at that rate. Another weak, pulled into the cheek sort of side smile appearing, sincerer, but still sinking. Everybody could see it.  _Everybody_  knew, even if neither of them had been able to. But now the cards were all on the table, he hadn't a single ace or last minute weapon, not even a wildcard left up his sleeve, there was no  _misinterpreting_  what happened. Vacant azure irises following the shadows,  _even_ you _don't need me to tell you that for you to understand,_ lost in the distance that he'd so foolishly sacrificed them to,  _you've practically got me_ ** _throwing_** _myself at you,_  Fushimi dragged the cigarette harsh and disoriented… _but you still don't get it, do you?_

Extinguishing eyes drooping all crestfallen like some sort of sad, abandoned animal, so submerged in thought and the loss of external feeling that, before he knew it, he didn't even know where he was anymore, and he didn't recognize anything around him. Not sure how long he'd been walking for, or when he'd even started, but when he finally glanced up, he was nowhere near his apartment, and no one was following him.  _And it's obvious you don't want to, because you finally hate me, don't you?_ The second cigarette was so situationally implied, it had hardly registered how it had gotten into his hand, feeling too many things too quickly to make sense of them, and everything around him entirely surreal. _I finally got you to hate me for real this time_ , Fushimi's entire body went devoid of any emotion,  _and all I had to do was show you who I really am._

_I didn't have to antagonize or abandon you, I didn't even have to insult the memory of your precious Mikoto, somehow it was actually more effective after all this time just to be myself,_ he smiled faintly, _so tell me, why did I bother going through all that trouble in the first place? If that was really going to be sufficient enough from the start? I could've saved us both the years of suspense…_

_God, you must be so disappointed._

_...I really am pathetic, aren't I?_

**┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄**  
Approximately 15 Minutes After  
**┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄**

A mise–en–scène of Misaki, mistakes, and slow motion midday mirroring macabre madness and malfunctioning malice in a steadily destabilizing mosaic of misery and memory whose decorative inlay was collapsing inwards and coming undone.

Structural convalescence in critical condition, mercurial shades of color variegating and dying out. An awful combination. Fading, unbalanced, entropic, and unforgiving—these asymmetrical atmospherics that favored the storm. The snake pit of sound. The decolorization of chaos. Demons that he could not drown, swimming as they watched him sink. The stroke of midnight melting his water-wings, the immunity of illusion usurped by original shape, the state of the incapacitated, silhouetted shadow that took his place. Well beneath sea level by now, feeling bipolar and blind, the water so deep, no interphase, just rapid cycling, the tangible divide, too afraid to open his eyes, and unable to open his mouth. Words that didn't stand a chance against the pressure, the saltwater that would have stung too unbearably as it filled his lungs.

So his mind began mass producing metaphors that took away from what really mattered, and swallowed him instead.

He couldn't stop it, he'd already tried, to mimic the motions, challenge the ocean, coexist within the currents. And look where it had gotten him? Halfway to hell and hysterical, too many things weighing him down to float, doubting if he could even remember how, and thrashing about had just made the whole thing go faster. He was out of options, the skyline disjoining to the point it had gotten so small it couldn't have been any bigger than a faint glimmer, a falling star against an abysmal body of alternating blue layers, all bleeding darker until everything had gone black. Bigger picture, _any_ picture, vanishing from sight. No photoelectric particlization undergoing the conversion of visible light into the electrically charged, no imagery emitting. No contiguity, no drive, no steadiness, no foreseeable silver lining anywhere in the near future, just a _slam_ , the ricochet, and that never ending resonance, followed by an automation of machinelike repression incapable of stifling the reality:

His life. Was officially. **Over**.

And for _what_? All he'd wanted was to prove something. To _just this once_ do something actually _good_ in his life. And instead, he'd ruined everything. Did that really not count for anything? Was that _really_ so bad? To make somebody feel wanted? To _want_ somebody to feel wanted? To care enough about another person to put _everything_ else aside for them? Was it honestly so horrible _to care,_ period? Was that not the entire basis of a _friendship_? Had he somehow botched even _that_ simple understanding? ...because none of that _caring_ , that unconditional mutuality of feeling, that sappy stupid wax poetic **bullshit** , felt very _reciprocated_ right now, and his mind was going numb.

I mean, he wasn't _stupid_ , it's not like he was expecting fireworks or anything as farfetched as _happily ever after_ …not _realistically_ at least, but flat out rejection... It. It just wasn't on the list.

It wasn't something he'd been prepared to be on the receiving end of, not again, not so soon, not straight to his face. Like it wasn't even _hard_ , like it required absolutely _no_ effort whatsoever to denounce him as if he were just some, some _person_ , some random nobody who meant absolutely nothing. And it was pathetic and weak and _utterly_ degrading, but it hurt. **A lot**. It was an ugly feeling, one that burrows in your stomach, hibernates after eating its fill, and then waits out the winter. Amassing although asleep, big and heavy and simply waiting to reawaken, but never truly gone. Never dead. Never far from finding its way back up into your chest to feed. Never lying dormant long enough to recover.

And. It was lonely. It _shouldn't_ , it had scarcely been more than twenty minutes, not even a whole twenty-four hours, but it was. He hadn't even made it _an_ hour, an entire sixty minutes, and already it had sunken in so deep. He doubted now whether it had even taken those initial twenty he mentioned, or whether it wasn't already just there to begin with. Before the rejection, before the door, before any of it. Already pulling at him, the water, the currents, the music, _time_. Christ, he sounded like Munakata, so needlessly, emptily formal and full of grandiloquence. Perhaps not quite as bombastic, but he still couldn't shut the fuck up with this lyrical little diary entry of feelings and sentiments that typically annoyed him beyond any degree of tolerating.

The Catch-22 of Recency _,_ he chalked it up to, so proximal it was anesthetizing, but the instancy of the unfeeling was constantly renewing the corporeality of the cause. So tangible it felt physical, like it was alive and demanded to speak. Or breathe, breathing was probably a better way to phrase, breathing was involuntary, these thoughts were involuntary, the last thing Fushimi wanted was to ramble and reaffirm that he couldn't keep himself together. To go as far as transposing himself with his former king when he knew it didn't even make proper sense, it was just easier, safer, a way to hide in this collective identity that shifted blame. Too self-defeating a strategy to admit this was all him. That the _Gloomy Fushimi_ , the big bad turncoat, _Mr. I Don't Need Anything and I'm Too Good For Everyone_ actually had emotions, feelings that got hurt, and not the faintest idea what to do with them.

To redraw the parallels between the fact it only proved how fractionalized Yata had left him, or he'd left himself, or he'd always been. Broken up and divided and wishing it would all just go away. This human-esque exposure he found unforgivable for a _reason_ , letting his guard down, getting so close, and letting the unattainable punch him in the face. You can't relive the past, the past was the **past** for a _reason—tenses_ he reminded himself frantically, rapidly scratching the side of his head as if to dispel the thoughts, that stupid hopeful part of him he should have killed that had reached out anyways. _Settle down, Gatsby,_ that's what some part of him had said, _get a hold of yourself,_ somewhere in the back of his head before this all started, _don't you get shot in the end?_

Well, he'd gotten shot alright, shot down, through the chest, and out of range. Not even his strings could save him anymore. _Watch what I'll become,_ he could have laughed if he'd had the strength, if he didn't think his whole chest would go concave, _friendless, forlorn, and so_ fucking _far gone it's laughable._ However, insensitive, sarcastic remarks and bitter self-removed humor couldn't put him back together any better than the stalling or his strings, and the immensity of the expanse only grew. Fushimi bit his lip a little, it was a sad and disheartening kind of distance, and within it, him and no one else…

_No one._ Not his parents, not his family, not his friends— _friend_ —not his clan, not his king, not his _former_ king, not his _former_ clansmen, not his shadow, not his reflection, not his _enemies_ , not random pedestrians walking through the street. **No one.** Fushimi's airways had begun to accelerate again, frantic to continue listing at the expense of redundancy until he remembered he was under water and there was no air. Eerily calming. Sort of hypnotizing the way the waves rocked his body lifelessly back and forth, trying to compartmentalize this repressed information. Feeling sort of slighted. Maybe he wasn't exactly what you'd call a _walk in the park,_ but when in his life had he become so unwanted? A weak smile escaping as his brows knitted towards the more important question—when did the only person who ever _did_ want him, stop?

Arms fidgeting and moving around his person in search of something to distract himself with. A fainthearted attempt to bottle it all up because everything in the past, both aside and combined, nothing had made him feel more misplaced than this incalculable disseverance. An unprecedented aching because, for the first time in his life, the knowledge of being alone was genuinely painful. All those cracks he'd been so skeptical, so over-speculative of forming, of showing on the surface now that he'd willingly swapped his skeletons for outdated, worn and torn skin, peeling back and falling away in ribbons. Not even caring enough to bother patching or picking them up as he went, and the awareness alone was revolting.

Truthfully, Fushimi wanted to be angry with the other boy—like he knew he should be, would've been if this had happened at any other point in their lives—angr _ier—_ like he'd tried to be. He wanted to retreat, distance and detach in a more dignified way than this, fight back, be furious, make this feeling go full circle until Yata felt twice as, no, _ten_ times as bad, but he supposed it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered. It was over. He'd waited two whole months, give or take an extra day, just to formally witness it all fall apart.

He lit a cigarette, trembling, he couldn't handle it, he didn't even want to think about it.

An unrelenting gust of wind colliding with his body in a head on collision, the air crisp and filled with the scent of fall, like leaves turning color had come to life in an aromatic autumnal burst, harsh and divergent, as if purposely pushing him back. Forceful currents pulling at his coat ends and disheveling his hair at it tore away at his surroundings. Scattered bits of debris and fallen foliage, leaflets and dead flower petals spiraling in lazy whirlwinds and smothering his cigarette as he sighed dejectedly.

Reaching for a lighter to remedy the stiff, foul smelling half-lit cartridge as the disruptive howling of the windswept thrashing died out, giving birth to a more unpleasant auditory riff just as Fushimi was dismissing how dreadfully ironic it was that even nature was against him now, and not even his _cigarettes_ would stay lit for him. Just burnt out like the unevenly distributed flecks of gold and amber, as if those eyes too were nothing more than embers. Flameless and smoldering beneath the suffocation into ghost trails of acrid smoke before they dematerialized.

_"Don't act so surprised,"_ was the intervening response, suspended somewhere in the middle of nowhere, _"what else did you expect?"_

His stomach instantaneously dropped, eyes temporarily closing and compressing ever so slightly. Not quite tightly enough to call a wince, but close enough, evident creasing sufficiently implicative; and he couldn't relight that cigarette fast enough, fingers maneuvering more hastily. _Why?_

_"You're too greedy,"_ it picked back up in a contemptible scolding, " _You_ never _learn no matter_ how _many times you repeat yourself. It's_ **ridiculous** _,"_ all exasperated like a school teacher lecturing a delinquent child.

Is this really what he sounded like?

_"Honestly, you're so selfish that there's almost no point in_ pointing _it out anymore. When it's so_ obvious _how irrelevant something so_ _ **obviously**_ _bound to backfire is compared to you getting your way. How easily you ignore the evident for the inability to deny the impulse,_ " it sounded disgusted now, " _It really is_ all _about you, isn't it?"_

_Go away._

It was a stupid question, and under any other circumstances, he would have argued, but the contexture was unfixed, his countenance frigid, corrosive, and unable to process a single sound. Everything lacking a necessary ordered series of action to lead to an end result, simultaneously within and without, equivocating, unwitting, and irresolute.

Fushimi kept walking.

_"Everything was going so well, that for a second, you even had_ _ **me**_ _fooled, but in the end, you haven't changed at all, have you? Even your_ sincerity _wasn't strong enough, you couldn't even manage_ that _much. What about this whole process is so confusing, what is it you don't_ get, _w_ _hat have you been_ doing _this whole time?"_

It was all he _could_ do, walk, move, _leave_ , **go** , forward, constancy, still not fully comprehending, where he was, or what kept his body in motion, but he hadn't the time to listen. Each nagging dispersion of noise more odious and unnecessary than the last, arousing acrimonious overtones, but he ignored them as best he could.

_"I'm at a total loss. You're a real piece of work, you know that?"_

Clawing somewhere deep within his core, but he could hardly even feel it anymore.

_" Misaki was right…"_

Except maybe that part.

_"…aren't you supposedly renown for being some sort of acclaimed genius? So, riddle me this,_ genius _, how could you be so_ fucking _**stupid**_ _?"_

_Shut. Up._ He sighed without actually exhaling or inhaling either, forgetting the involuntary action of breathing somewhere in features insincerely warping into a weakened scowl, blue eyes glued to the ground, encircled in grey.

_"When the solution is so simple it may as well be a hidden picture in a Highlights magazine at the doctor's office that somebody already circled, when it's_ _**right there**_ _. How many times have we been_ **through** _this?"_

These ponderous, lackluster rings eliminating lucidity.

_"All you have to do is_ _ **look**_ _,"_ it spat in irritation _, "stop skipping over what's staring you in the face. Why do you insist on making it so difficult? It isn't rocket science, it's hand delivering all the fucking answers, just open you eyes and_ **look** _, it's_ not _complicated."_

For the imaginary, it was breathing rather heavily, no doubt exhausted in the face of what it deemed unmanageably ignorant, but Fushimi's gaze never lifted from the concrete, counting cracks in the sidewalk.

_"But, no."_ It huffed and puffed and blew him down a few more pegs. " _God_ forbid _you actually admit when you're wrong and then actually_ do _something about it."_ The eye roll was practically audible, " _I don't even understand what you_ get _from that, refusing anything that wasn't already_ your _idea._   _Would it seriously kill you to see it for what it really is and not just what you want it to be for once? Scratch that,"_ it laughed with grave condescension, _"stupid question—you're so narcissistic and mistrusting it wouldn't make a difference, so self-centered I can't even say you should have_ known _better—you_ _ **knew**_."

He kept walking. Crossing his arms. Wrapping them around himself.

_"And you did it anyways."_

Temporarily trying to maintain balance.

He could feel an aimless heat circulating as his lips enclosed around the cigarette, the two of them completely unrelated, the sensation too particular and the cigarette no more than a conductor, the way it parted them, the warmness spreading, all acidic and embarrassing, clutching his chest. Warmth spreading and eroding while sorrow closed up his throat and the willowy figure left standing lost equilibrium—trembled, shivered, body shaking as he shrank away and the wound reopened.

Ruminating in a reticulum that morphed indistinguishably with the wreckage, wrought into a rectilinear waveform. The phantom narration having appeared like an apparition, unappreciative and accusatory, in and out of Fushimi's ears like broken glass. Sharp, painful, and impossible to dislodge. The imagery of his inner-self emerging and eschewing through tendrils of smoke, playing tricks on his eyes and taking advantage of the precipitative disrepair of his senses.  _"How could you_ NOT _**KNOW**_ _,"_ it was gesturing furiously; a shaky set of fingers evasively pulling the tawny cylinder of a cigarette to his lips. A smothering surge of smoke collecting in his throat, seeping into his stomach and pushing sideways somewhere in the middle, heart elevating up and out of place. A pressured and painfully immense weight of irregular sensation slamming against his sternum, _"you burn down_ anything _you touch..._ _Y_ _ou suck the life out of_ _**everything**._ _"_

The cigarette hissed, then simpered, and he found himself dragging filter. Too numb to cough, to register how thick and sickly the taste of plastic, paper, and poison were when you were expecting menthol. A smooth, stimulative fraction of feeling that came and went as quickly as the sinuous trails, letting the tan speckled carcass fall from his middle and pointer finger carelessly and not really noticing as he _shucked_ the pack underneath his sleeve with a weak flick of the wrist and a new one fell forward.

_"That's right, just go ahead and step on it while you're at it, go on ahead and walk_ right _over it, it's your favorite place to throw things, after all."_

The intonation still as expectedly condescending as ever, and he took the lighter from his pocket next.

_"I mean, why not?"_

The question was rhetorical, but the raven haired boy was too busy in the motions of his thumb pressing roughly and swiftly in a quarter turn against the rigid metal wheel to conjure the necessary flame to notice anyways. Or care. 

And the caustic churning chorused on with more questions. " _Right? What's another body?_ " This restless reenactment of who he supposedly used to be growing irritating, making it sound as if he murdered people on a daily basis, shaking his head and leaning into his cigarette. _"What's the count these days, anyway? Oh-wait, how ignorant of me, that would actually imply that I expect you to care enough to look back, to show any_ concern _for the messes you leave behind. When we both know how likely_ _ **that**_ _is."_

" _After all, why bother breaking stride and abandoning a perfectly functional system? I mean, it's gotten you this far, hasn't it? So, by all means, proceed,"_ an invisible hand waved him forward. This petty, patronizing peaking of a sing-song cadence taking shape in such a passive aggressive way that clearly took pleasure in condemning him like some faulty structure scheduled for demolition. Too flippant and defective to be considered reliable, let alone stable. And there was little and less of that truth to be hidden when the speaker was yourself, offering continuous criticism falsely disguised as constructive by the smart-mouthed retorts.

_"What could_ _ **possibly**_ _go wrong? What's the worst that could happen? I_ _t's not like you haven't already done this a_ dozen _times, what's another twist of the knife? Clearly it's not important enough to make a fuss over losing. So, fuck it. Why lose sleep? You're a veteran. Thoroughly seasoned. You can handle it. Who cares. Just run away again, you'll find something new—you're pretty good at that you know, for such a sad, sickly, toxic little thing."_

_Toxic, huh?_ Fushimi thought as he blew some back into the atmosphere, slow, steady, and prolonging each motion. Strings starting to sever like wires snapping; the sheer, high pitched echo of tension inevitably building like an elastic rebound. And the sight of something so willingly rendering defeat did little to please his imaginary tagalong, assessing Fushimi's current state without sympathy, just unfathomable pity and escalating resentment. Recounting his crimes in the most debasing fashion—this annoyance of wisdom that exceeded its predetermined age parameters, preaching like some sage, otherworldly entity. Vague descriptions that dove head first into subjects without proper introductions, and didn't bother explaining why, simply shoved the moral down his throat in a matter of incontrovertible sentences like he wasn't already choking on them.

_"So jealous of anything that isn't yours, anything you can't have, you reach out and take it—force it to swallow you whole and then still have the nerve to wonder why you get spit back out. You ruin_ everything _, you're not_ wired _for this, what did you do to_ make _me like this? What did_ _ **I**_ _do to_ _ **make you**_ _make me like_ **this** _? You're_ _ **contagious,**_ _you make me_ sick _, I_ **hate** _you, you made Misaki cry again, you're the worst."_

The insults strung together as fluidly as the smoke, more simplistic and childish all of a sudden, though—the exchange not even taking place between the two strains of conscious, and Fushimi offered it no response; and just as quickly, it dissipated back into something devilish. Some evil, noxious seedling spawn he must have been born with inside him, feeding it, watering it with sips of nightshade, wicked slips of the tongue, all the awful things he'd swallowed over the years and forced this fragile frame of his psyche to stomach.

_"You want the attention so badly, you want to_ _ **feel**_ _this badly? You want to burn everything down to ashes and brimstone and then pretend you'll blend? Like anything about_ _ **anything**_ _you do is_ normal _? Like you_ _ **belong**_ _? But you know you don't, and_ I _know you don't, because you're so twisted and warped you keep_ doing it _to yourself. When are you finally going to learn? You only get so many lives, so many times to make me a murderer, I've given you_ _ **so**_ _many chances,"_ and for a fraction of a second there was genuine pain, but only a fraction,  _"This was the last. I'm done. You're on your own. If you're really in so much_ _ **pain**_ _, you've got strings, put two and two together. Tie the knot, get a pair of scissors, I don't_ _ **care**_ _. Just stop dragging us all down with you and be done with it."_

But he didn't need a voice in his head to tell him that. To give him an instructional set when he knew perfectly well what to do, when this wasn't the first time he'd ever considered it. Thought about it. Decided maybe it really _would_ be best. For everybody. But even better not to deal with having to feel anything at all. He'd killed himself so many times already, how would doing it for real really be all that different? If anything, nicer. _Softer._ **Quiet.** No conscious awareness to constantly relive the delivery of every body bag and the various _DNR_ letters he'd signed. So many of them collecting, resurrecting, because _technically_ that wasn't resuscitating, just giving birth to ghosts.

And now his best-friend was one of them. His lip wavered, salivating into the cigarette filter as the pressure accumulated and shook just to keep it in place, wetting and water-logging the circumference because he couldn't even swallow. Inhaling the stale, diluted aftertaste of what had sickened beyond salvaging, the sights and sounds around him disappearing in a dimorphic, bilateral radiation. This coevolution of symmetry in which the world as he knew it became lost in a suspension of senescence.

… _The path branched without principle, twisted and turned and crossed itself somewhere again so that all was repeated…_

His feet and his capacity for functioning no longer matched, flooding into the past as his body pulled him forward, _"just go,"_ it was such a small eclipsing in comparison to the silence, so unassertive and unlike him to listen. Or was it? _Quitting is just like me, isn't it, Aya?_ Feeling disembodied and detached, transcendently transpositional and transparent, leaking into the sequence, the recollection of days prior, the words not even hours old. And oddly enough, the ants. How long had it been since he'd last thought of them? Where had that fascination gone? Where had _he_ gone, where was he _going_ , but he fell just short of answering. Just like every other time before this. Feet against the pavement just an absent sensation, neither felt nor directed. Nor was he watching anything else but the invisible tunnels, dark, without light, and extending for miles.

Second, third, _fourth_ cigarette lit within seconds, he'd lost track of how many had caused the bruising pattern in lungs as he breathed, the inevitability of the past two days chasing at his heels, of forcing himself to tip-toe around it so indirectly. Thinking, but trying his hardest not to focus on what had been expended so effortlessly, tirelessly, and yet still managed to build. To bridge. Of the last six years they'd spent mindlessly recreating like they'd never been torn down, the history lesson with an ultimate asking price, the irreversible, _"What are you_ _ **doing**_ _here…"_

_I just wanted to see you._

_"…it's been_ _**two months** _ _…"_

_I know, I've been counting…_

_"…What timeline are we on,_ _**huh** _ _?"_

_The one I've been trying to get back to,_ Fushimi exhaled with reluctant pauses, airways hesitating, concentrating on the mentholated mind-numbing he was no longer taking as needed, but in a frequency of increased doses. _Or was it the one I've been manipulating? Ruining? Running away from?_ Thinking over these things he should have said. The honesty put forth for false reasons. The ultimately knowing that somewhere beneath the truth was another lie. Another lapse. _"And you just watched."_

_"I_ tried _to stop you."_

_"You screamed at me."_

_"You left me."_

_"Because you replaced me."_

_And now you don't want me at all…_

Another looping track, listening to ghosts of ghosts, the multiple layers of the two of them overlapping in this inflorescence, a kaleidoscope-like blooming of identities and ages isolated into various situations that fit the framing of such vague words endlessly. Like they were destined to be reborn back into the water, letting go. In the end, it was always too much.

… _It seemed like they dug their tunnels randomly_ …

They had never made any _goddamn_ sense, he shook his head, thoughts dispersing in a way that felt empty and stupid, unable to reroute.

… _but because the residents never got lost, he thought there was surely some kind of system in the world only those who belong to it know about..._

But Fushimi couldn't put the same sort of distance between the idea as he could the apartment complex.

How he still remembered so distinctly thinking that system was an absolutely beautiful thing, this world they had once founded when there was no reasonable ground, nor any conceivable design that would, or had ever made any sense to the one outside of it. Perhaps the first time in his life he'd ever considered anything beautiful. How they'd continuously dug into each other, clashed, collided, pushed, and started forging paths. How they progressed, every day something new, some adventure, some next installment, and he wasn't talking about his science fair project anymore, this indescribable empty space in his stomach forming, the sight of fire, the frayed fringing of incinerating paper set into motion, not wanting to picture that face.

That vulnerable, breathless confusion and infuriation melting into embarrassment and over-concern, rounding and regarding him as something so fragile. Something worthy of that sentiment. Reacting as if they'd done something wrong. It hurt. Less so than the pallets his mind couldn't bring itself to paint with—lips growing stiff and shakier around the cigarette filter again; the empty flickering of blue going back and forth between vacant, angry, and dejected in his eyes, reddening under the pressure of such dramatic variations resulting within such quick succession of one another—but more than the memory it was resting on by far.

How he'd learned to watch his friend with that same sense of awe and fascination, had somewhere along the way learned the ins and outs, the intricate structure, how to navigate him flawlessly. And before long, that too had become something beautiful. He couldn't even remember when anymore, it had been so long, since it monopolized and redefined the very word itself. Not superficially either, but in the most innocent, identifiable interconnectedness Fushimi could remember ever fusing with something as selfish and disagreeable as himself so acceptingly. Willingly. Wanting to.

Such a naturally integrated part of him that he was starting to panic again, chest temporarily palpitating, fingers less dexterous, the failure of fluidity in his movements only growing more and more noticeably because he had no idea how to separate something so symbiotic and second nature, so intensified beyond repressing from some intangible safe inside where he'd locked it up one day. Having forgotten the combination, misplaced the key, refused to lose it even at the expense of holding it prisoner. It had been a juvenile mode of thinking, but he'd been too young to understand back then. That he really couldn't live without it. That he'd eventually want more… _from_ it. That importance could shift from so many interpersonal hierarchies of feeling. That he could ever want something so badly he wanted to rip it out. Or that one day, he might actually succeed.

That he could ever feel so lost. Knowing it wasn't something he could ever come back from. How permanent. How irreversible change could be. How the simplest notion left Fushimi feeling cold. How they'd always found one another, time after time, no matter how deeply submerged within this labyrinth, no matter how twisted, against the odds, or downright impossible it seemed, but he had a feeling that this time was different.

The reflections collecting like cancerous masses upon the already cancerous masses collecting in the smoke, smothering and constricting, the narration, the realization. The knowledge of taking something absolutely beautiful and dousing it in gasoline when he knew better…When he hadn't wanted to be so forceful…so unkind, but hadn't realized how far his actions went until the whole thing set on fire before his eyes.

Not the first time he'd watched as it burned.

That he'd known what to do, how to fix it, how to put the fire out, but grabbed some more ammo and turned his back instead. Walked out the door. He just _left_. Throwing some tinder and a couple of matches on the ground as a parting gift just to make sure it didn't go out too quickly. And suddenly, he didn't even know who he was anymore— _"…or did you kill_ _ **yourself**_ _too, somewhere along the way?"_ —when he'd truly died— _"…you're_ _ **delusional**_ _if you think for a second the same rules still apply…"_ —because he knew exactly.

_"Is this who I turn into?"_

Fushimi cringed.

_"..._ _**this** _ _is what I stabbed my best-friend in the back for?"_

It is…

_"…maybe I should start calling you_ _**Niki** _ _instead…"_

He wanted to die.

_"...you're certainly starting to look an awful lot like him these days."_

He ignored all the warning signs and it happened.

_"Ever think it's not by coincidence?"_

It wasn't. It was official. He fucked up.

_"…ingenious and insensitive and full with malice he was aware of and malice he wasn't aware of and one of four things at once…"_

And now he knew why.

_"How many times are you going to tear him apart before it's enough?"_

He'd gone too far.

_"Because I_ _**hate you** _ _for that."_

He should have seen it coming.

_"For making Misaki cry over something as ugly as you."_

But he ran away. Refused to see it. And Misaki wasn't coming.

_"Are you really so successful at pretending it stopped meaning everything…"_

There was nothing left.

_"… or maybe you've started to enjoy it."_

No rest for the wicked. And something wicked this way whispered.

Into his vocal cords, the Volkmann's canals, the vestibules, every vital organ, vexatious and viral, vivaciously fitting him for size, the deceptively attractive external facing of such a vindictive veneer.

_"That was_ _**seven**_ _, by the way."_

_Seven_ , such heavy symbolism; the Tarot, _The Chariot,_ lack of control in reverse; the seven-headed infernal beast of _Revelations_ , the devil, the monkey mimicking god; deadly sins, _Pride_ , the downfall of man, the original, most serious, and source of the other six, the devil's most prominent trait; unwritten biblical layers of purgatory, uncleansed sin and the prevention of ascension; days of the week, _Saturday_ , the child who works for a living, ruled by _Saturn_ , suspension and prevention; _Uranus_ , seventh planet from the sun, tendency of the unexpected, violence, rule over natural disasters, named for the Greek god, born from Chaos; _Saturn_ again, seventh from the earth, associated with the paternal, restriction, the elements of time, their limitations, and Uranus's son, the mythological ruler of death and decay, a cruel deity, the grim reaper, Satan's derivation, _The Great Malefic_ ; letters in his last name, refer to the past two; years of bad luck, smashing the mirror, the fracturing of his own reflection; and _Dante's_ Circles of Hell, _Violence_ , sunken in a sea of fire and blood, foliage fed upon by harpies, incinerated by scorching sand and sweltering rainfall in the sky...and suddenly Fushimi wished he hadn't read so much.

_"If you seriously think there's such a thing as suffering in silence when_ _**you're** _ _involved."_

The evidence was overwhelming, the conclusion cut and dry, and no matter how abstract, the moral was one in the same. Seasickness washing over him and sucking the water that composed over ninety percent of his body dry, and _goddamn it_ , couldn't he just _for once_ be less accurate...less factual...less predisposed to drawing out the panic attack, the pain, the paralyzing fear of it all...why _did_ he have to be like this? Why did it _always_ have to be like _this_?

" _You know, maybe if you stopped thinking about yourself so damn much then it wouldn't have to hurt so bad._ **MAYBE** _if you stopped skipping out and running headfirst into the fire...then you wouldn't have to watch it all burn to the ground."_

But he'd watched. And it'd burnt. And he was wearing his own worst nightmare—he was suffocating, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, staggering to balance, hand outstretched to grab hold of a nearby lamppost. Even that voice in his head no more than a memory plaguing him on repeat, remixing the previous night, reconditioning just how bad he'd done himself in.

_"You killed me so you could become_ _**this**_ _?"_

The weight of his body collapsing into the cold embrace of alternating metal wedges, the decorative exterior of the structure that had no intention of holding him up, and he didn't blame it. What's the point of helping something that's already six feet deep?

_"THE FLESH IS WEAK. THE FLESH IS WEAK."_

And it turns out it was true, and his was the weakest; and maybe this still wasn't bible study, but he was sure as hell smack dab in the middle of Gethsemane. His best intentions, a path to hell, that bad omen in the sky, kneeling in front of Totsuka's grave, this final moment of prayer, not realizing he was already standing in his own, having fallen asleep, the foreshadowing passing him by. The night before his execution, he could have run away, but became lost in the dream of something he didn't deserve, that he'd taken advantage of. But it was morning now, he was waking up, he could feel the burden, struggling under the weight, carrying his own cross, or at least trying, every stop just one of the stations, and if memory served him right, this was only the first of three falls. This wasn't even the worst of it.

When he'd started, he'd been convinced he was killing himself for Misaki's sake, for the grand gesture of saving his friend from his sins, not Yata's, but Fushimi's, for all the things he'd unfairly inflicted; but in the end, that was just another self-righteous load of crap, crucifying himself for acts that were selfish not selfless in the least, trying to save himself from the pain of regretting his decisions. Of burning everything down because this couldn't _possibly_ be his fault, conflicted, confused, and pointing his finger like Pontius Pilot, another betrayal, condemning himself and punishing the only person who had ever believed in him.

He covered his face, pressing against his eye sockets so hard they were halfway back into his skull, he wasn't saving anyone, he couldn't save ANYTHING, he wasn't even capable of saving _HIMSELF_. He _knew_ this already, why the fuck did he have to try and defy it? There was no where to go, to run, to hide, and at the end of this road there was only more suffering, the borderline between heaven and hell, but no one was waiting to offer him deliverance. He deserved every last bit of this, what was coming to him, and it had been a long, long time coming at that. Stomach constricting, clenching and trembling, so disgusted and afraid and vulnerable and angry all at once, unable to light his cigarette because of how badly he was shaking. Because of the fact this was all out of body, the fact that even his emotions were all in his head, he couldn't feel a damn thing, he was nothing more than a surrogate, an empty shell.

Sinuses clogged and sniffly sounding, backed up and congested and unable, or unwilling, no matter how much part of him wanted to cry, still reluctant to actually admit the truth. Too proud, too paranoid, too pathetic to take on the permanence, the contradiction his whole life had become in the span of seconds, the invisible set of strings he was never pulling, the pair he was predisposed to, like a set of training wheels that had finally fallen. Going through the motions all on his own without their help anymore, the final act of fucking with him even from beyond the grave. _That man was truly incredible in his own way, wasn't he?_ Fushimi thought, bitter, but losing it, leering at the irony, pushing harder and leaning down as it all combined together and respired in the self-deprecating, self-avoiding choke of laughter.

He'd finally become his father.

This was the final result, this was what he'd given up everything for, his final transformation, the repercussions of reincarnation, the fruits of his labors, hardly believing he'd actually _killed_ himself for this, so many times and so much sooner than every part of him had been ready for, so against his better judgement. So he could become his _father_ , so he could resurrect the single _worst_ human being to have _ever_ walked the earth at the expense of his own life. He could practically see the similar trademark smirk of that man in his mind now, so much less emotion, so smug and indifferent, but somehow ten thousand times as cruel and effective as his own subconscious imitation had ever been, and this time it was outdoing itself.

_You win_ , he laughed again, the same smothered resistance, choking and suppressing the extent of feeling in his chest, the fact he actually managed to feel even more empty than before, so purposeless and defeated and stripped of any semblance of himself. He'd lost, to a corpse, outwitted and outmaneuvered by a dead man, _now aint'_ that _a bitch_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, please still love me after I do this. 


	5. Part Four.2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two: Yata: significantly less everything repeated that part one was.

╔═. ✔.═════════════════╗  
℘ᴚ⌭⒨ꟾ§⧢ˢ ₩ℝℹʇᵀƐƞ ◴Ͷ Ϣ⎀Ͳǝℛ.ℙʇ⦁⓸⦁²/₂  
╚═════════════════. ✘ .═╝

┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄❮❰❬⸨❨❪⸦⧉⸧❫❩⸩❭❱❯┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄  
                                                                                                                                                                                          **❝** ꟾ⎳ℓ⌴ẟⓘ⟴ƞᵟ  ** _commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes_** ∁⥁ꞁŁ⟟ȡ∊  ** _with a bit of_** Ꝛ∃ª⅂¿⊥ℽ ** _, against which they are dashed_** ** _to_  pieces**.❞

_-Sigmund Freud_

┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄❮❰❬⸨❨❪⸦⧉⸧❫❩⸩❭❱❯┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄

_**=͟͟͞͞** ( **SLAM** ). _

Staring around the room, he felt stupid, knees pressed roughly into the hardwood floor, and beginning to bruise from the harsh collision of a fall he hadn't braced for. Muscles straining and shaking at the same time, like an animal caught out in the rain, shivering and too stunned to move. Eyes weeping senselessly like icebergs in the summertime, an involuntary kind of downpour that streaked slowly, staining his cheeks, but left the rest of him otherwise intact. This raw feeling around his lashes, fists twisting and steadily accumulating pressure, as if the liquid could simply be forced back, a motion his tear ducts refused, pushing back with even more opposing force. And _goddamn it_ did he feel like such a **fucking** _idiot._ The sparsely decorated interior, the plain, empty, eggshell colored walls—all four of them surrounding him, and not _one_ of them belonged to him. " _I kicked him out of his own apartment,"_ Yata groaned into the two palms spreading to cover his face.

Heated currents of embarrassment and overactive emotion merging and sweeping beneath the atmospheric cold front emitting from the space; swirling and twisting dangerously within a whirlwind of the mind, the memories that weren't nearly as forgiving as the metaphors. Blinking fragments of past tense and present circumstances encircling him like debris that danced _far_ from delicately in his gaze. Thrashing and thrusting against his body, tearing through his skin like a thousand invisible paper cuts, eerily reminiscent of the pierce of a throwing knife sticking out of his shoulder. Just like it'd been lodged in his skin all over again, curiously reaching for the space, and finding the deep, risen scar somewhere beneath his clothing. Tracing the anomalous, uneven shape of protruding tissue, unintentionally melding the plains of intangible and unmistakable that only gave way to more tears.

The shock of what had no substance and what was increasingly too real tethering together until they transfigured into a tightrope beneath two clumsy, teetering feet, sixty stories deep, but somehow a hundred more higher in the sky, suspended in midair. A balancing act he was beginning to displace the symmetry between the scales of, too scared to make sense, and crying too hard to see straight, fumbling, footwork askew, the petrifying drop in his gut. Like a rollercoaster that wasn't fun anymore, that adrenaline rush no longer thrilling, but scaring the living shit out of you. A few hollow clicks overhead taunting you as your seat begins to plummet at god knows how many miles per hour and you feel the restraints starting to creak and lift upwards away from your chest. That blindsiding flash of panic and regret—wishing you could get off before you'd gotten on, picked the first car, the grooved plastic seat with the defective latch; or decidedly braved the high wire without any safety net in place to catch you—that sinking feeling when your body enters free-fall.

Scenery wiping past so fast it's all one big motion blur of memories and minutes set to fast forward. Watching them come into focus just as quickly as the wind rips them away. No sense of safety. And no escaping. Objects that appear far when they're actually closer, the optical illusion bending and breaking focus as they all blur together. The look on Fushimi's face. An absentee mirage of emotions that matched the vacancy in his features the day the sky fell down. The look in his eyes as he laughed and their whole world came crashing to the ground upon the dissipation of the storm.  _I guess it wouldn't be the first time, though,_ he frowned, the most unbearable strain twisting his insides around his ribcage, exerting the most terrible pressure, _that I drove him out..._ he swallowed, hiccuping and inhaling sharply as he envisioned it,  _forced him straight from a place that was always rightfully his._

 _Ours,_ Yata softly corrected, thinking of their apartment, the place they'd once upon a time cohabited before he'd kicked Fushimi out and kept it for himself. The parallel universe they'd created and erected together on a joint foundation, a friendship, that although oppositional, was never supposed to shift; but like liquefaction after an earthquake, stable ground had turned to submerging pools, and as the ship went down, he'd pushed the other boy off the floating remnant of a doorway like this was the fucking _Titanic._ Leaving him to freeze, letting him sink as he selfishly clung to the only source of safety, refusing to let Fushimi's baggage tip the balance and take them both down. An entryway that had already cracked and unfastened from its hinges that he let close forever. Denying access, no entry, _no traitors allowed._

 _Like there wouldn't have been a_ thousand _other doors on that goddamn ship,_ he scowled. _Like ANY of them would have actually fucking_ **floated** _without body weight displacing the water beneath them until they both drown. Right? Fucking_   ** _science_** _,_ _or some shit,_ feeling both his face and inflection fall a little too close to Fushimi's for a second, distracting his actions with fictitious characters and flawed movie references. _"Critiques,"_ and this time, it really was Saruhiko's voice that echoed in his mind, " _and that'd be **physics** , the Archimedes' Principle, 'or _some  _shit_ ,'" correcting his own subconscious, his improper usage of words, but Yata didn't have the capacity to deal with whispers, with that stupid unfaltering logic he loved so much, _**fuck** the Titanic, _ auburn locks shook, sniffling, and brushing the top of his hand across his nose.

Fighting to erase the evidence and hold back the involuntary refusal of his right to remain silent. Even if to himself. Such admissions could be lethal. After all, he was rather well-versed in the art of recidivism, a repeat offender, the farthest thing from a law abiding citizen, knowing anything he did or said—forget the _can_ — **would** be used against him. _If I were an essay, that would be the theme_ , and this time he choked a laugh, somewhere between bitter and delusional humor, the phantasmal interjecting of the _Factual Fuhrer_ otherwise known as Fushimi joining in once more.

 _"I'm impressed,"_ it humbled, " _you always had a knack for words, but never when it came to the right ones, eh? Mi. Sa. Ki?"_

The extension of that sound, imaginary or not, the spacing between those syllables, was as palpable and tangible as if spelled out within the soft sensation of airy tendrils leaking in through a window that didn't quite latch, letting in a draft, appearing and passing through him as quickly as it vanished. He could feel it everywhere, corroding the marrow in his bones, tiptoeing across his tympanic membrane, meddling in the microscopic chemical changes within which his very memories had formed. "Shut up," Yata mumbled aloud, despite himself, lowering his head to cover both ears like headphones, then immediately retracting, the simplicity of a single word, not to mention the notion encoded, likewise, still too fresh, drawing up his spine with a shiver akin to nails on a chalkboard. Solidifying, vibrating, the long-term-potentiation of declarative memory—episodic and echoing and crawling everywhere beneath his skin.

 _"Follow your own advice then,"_ the conversation continued, " _you honestly think I'd deign to go as far as hand-delivering some telepathically absurd, apparitional advice to the likes of you? Tsk. As dimwitted as ever. Come on, can't you draw the simple conceit from your own, so called, self-proclaimed theme, Mi. ~ Sa. ~ Ki.??? It's so obvious, and you already said it, so what's the matter?_ ** _Consequences_** _got your tongue?"_

The pauses were more protracted this time, positively correlating with the condescension that was rising with each hypothetical rebuttal. When had he become so disturbingly skilled at mastering his friend's speech patterns so flawlessly? It was one thing to parrot, to mimic in the heat of a feud for mockeries sake, and another to jest, but Misaki couldn't remember how many seasons had cycled since his subconscious actually split, separating his sanity from that which it hadn't the forbearance to deal, and substituting it entirely with words reminiscent of that which he'd been both haunted by and unable to hold. Whether it be conversation, contact, or the completely obvious interpretation he couldn't bring himself to say in so many words. Or any at all.

It was actually, in theory, utterly and indisputably fucked. This inability to come to terms without rehearsing, so needy, so incapable of functioning without Fushimi there to fix him. Yata frowned, cheeks faintly crusting and discolored, the residual effects of salt and sobbing hanging him out to dry in the resultant stupidity that somehow felt heavier once the crying had ceased and it sunk in more permanently that Saruhiko had seceded. _Again. Because I forced him to. And now. Now, I'm alone,_ he buried his head, alienated in a sanctioned off area, back against one of the walls, tucked into a corner, as if it could shelter him from what took no shape. Fidgeting and readjusting to no avail, trying so hard to fit where he didn't belong.

 _I wonder if this is how you felt all that time,_ the golden eyed boy thought reluctantly, having formed too quickly to adorn in chains, drawing little circles with his pointer finger on his knee and allowing it to rise to the surface. Biting his lip, that swelling upsurge in his stomach pressing his chest against his legs, bent in acute angles, arms wrapped securely around them and pulling into the opposing force to nullify the motion, _and I didn't even notice, not once, not at all._ Yata compressed into a sort of upright fetal position, beginning to rock back and forth, _I was too busy needing_ **_you_** _to notice, too busy assuming you'd still be there because you hadn't gone anywhere else, too shallow and insecure and ignorant to realize you were already gone._

And that made three, Homura, Home, Haven, the three strikes, the three consecutive sentences, the unspeakable, the thirty pieces of silver he'd sold out his best-friend for. The saddest sound, the constant repetition of a history doomed to keep repeating itself because he couldn't do a damn thing by himself, and when he tried, he only succeeded in pushing the one person who made it possible farther and farther away. So far, that right now, he wasn't feeling too confident it was a distance that could be conquered.

Elusive imagery beginning to project like a flash movie, flickering forth from his eyes, bending and folding tangibly along the walls, and all Yata could see was that face. That face that had stared back at him. That face that he'd screamed at. That he'd slapped so hard it forcibly turned. That face he'd never seen before, that he wished he'd _never_ seen, that expression. Fragmentary, incomplete, and fracturing. Those intricately placed panes of painted glass splitting along the surface in spiderwebs, like cracks in the ice, the light illuminating them no longer casting any reflection, completely devoid of self. So desperate. So fragile. So see through. _So obvious._ And he hated how the subconscious narration started to fall in sync with conscious thought, the theme, the conceit, the underlying everything that hid between the lines—dormant, but not difficult to detect— _he needed me._

_And I told him to leave._

Suddenly another anchor fell from his chest and submerged deep in his stomach, and Yata felt sick, like he'd just been punched so hard he was going to puke, the fist he hadn't the foresight to realize had been his own. _I told him to get out, called him a liar, the_ worst _, told him to leave, not to_ ** _touch_** _me, that I wouldn't believe a single word he said…I pushed and I pushed…and he finally stopped pushing back._

As the chain of events rewound and fast forwarded, visions of Fushimi's face continued to rise and fall as well, fading and flickering against the walls, silent like an old fashion film reel. Phosphorescent, that milky, pearl-like contrast of skin against deep raven colored hair, black and white and not yet advanced enough to create shades of gray, the undeniable waver, _the way he bit his lip,_ the redhead recalled, unthinkingly doing the same, _the way his voice cracked,_ he swallowed with great difficulty, _the way he_ looked _at me…like he wanted to cry and curse and cancel everything out,_ the spinning of the sequence starting to slow, the soundlessness of words, _"Don't be here when I get back,"_ the sight of a silhouette that was no longer familiar dematerializing as the scene tapered off in an uneven dispersion, _"I mean it,"_ dissolving listlessly in the liquescence.

Slow, steady, and sliding off long upper-lashes—set into motion by the sincerity of this simple ten word, single sentence that had struggled so hard against itself to even be spoken, too upset to say it point blank—soaking into the adjoining pair as Misaki closed his eyes and pulled himself up onto the bed beside him. Arms maneuvering blindly, _he never wants to see me again,_ his face flinched and fastened into an unstable frown, fluctuating and fending off this feeling of falling apart as he extended his forearms with the simultaneous crescent shaped curling of his upper half, stopping only once his fingertips brushed against the soft fabric that emitted a familiar scent. Growing stronger as his lungs gave way to irregular breathing, hugging the pillow tightly despite the sudden loss of strength, releasing a staggered, strangled, choking sound that no surface area could smother.

Emotions entangling with the expensive thread count, no longer resisting, allowing the tears to soak the silky material until it felt damp along his face, making it more and more difficult to breathe. Blood pressure rising and falling in inconsistent peaks and plummets, palpitating and pulsating to the point his heart beats felt like they were everywhere, from his fingertips to the balls of his feet. His whole body taking on the severity of the burden, or perhaps, every inch of him had been so pent up, so tightly wound, that unraveling was an all or nothing process, crying no longer mutually exclusive to the eyes alone, but the entirety of extremities that ached and emptied under the unforgiving, unresolved extent of just how deep this feeling really went.

 _Why would you_ ** _do_** _that,_ his chest heaved in and out. _In and out. In and out._ Struggling to synchronize, inhaling faster than he could exhale, all the oxygen sporadically stopping and starting and spewing something awful. Like the personification of confusion and panic if the two had been inanimate objects and the phrasing had applied, something Yata was frantically quick to correct, lest that voice in the back of his head do it for him. And he didn't think he could handle hearing it without losing control of functions that were biologically intended to be involuntary faster than he already was.

Not when it was already saying so many things, when it was _everywhere_ in this room around him, delicately curving and caressing, outlining every inch of his body. Invasively noninvasive, transcendentally intensifying, so _wrong_ , everything about it abnormal, unprecedented, but not entirely unpleasant.  _"I'm not giving you a choice,"_ he'd said it so naturally, so unlike Fushimi to be so straightforward in such an honest way, this level of unexpectedness that somehow lacked ulterior motive. Even _apologetic_ , a warning in advance, _"but I can't guarantee you're going to like the answer,"_  he'd moved so fearlessly, so calm and so sure, he'd made the whole thing seem so _easy_.

"You _kissed_ me," Yata murmured into the pillow, through the tears, cascading into the crestfallen features waxing and waning with the inevitability of embarrassment and shyness overtaking and turning the color in his face an entirely different shade of red. His internal thermostat skyrocketing, an unrelated heat from the exertion of crying beginning to shoot through his body. Like hot flashes of confusion, anger, shock, and.

And something else. Something that was clearly more than just _something_ and the farthest thing away from being _nothing_. But he was panicking, picking apart the pieces of this puzzle they'd been assembling since Fushimi happened to show up outside his apartment, pacing in his figure eights. Mouthing his paranoid poetry, like making unpleasantries rhyme made them somehow less real, less serious and stupid for thinking them in the first place.

He wondered if that should have been his first clue, the rhyming was a habit of Fushimi's, yes, but not one he displayed under just _any_ circumstances. And not often. Not in a very long time. _He was smoking too,_ Yata recalled, steadily recreating the day bit-by-bit, the sight of the cigarette behind his ear, the feel of loose tobacco and flimsy paper breaking apart in his fist, thinking it was strange how something so toxic—so deadly—could break so effortlessly. Even stranger still to see in Fushimi's possession, unable to temporarily block the transposing image of Mikoto from intervening, the similar way the other boy had let the device rest behind his ear in such a casual and unrefined way, nothing like his own king, the ever eloquent Munakata who wouldn't be caught _dead_ with his carcinogens anywhere but inside his breast pocket, tastefully concealed for the proper occasion. A parallel that derailed his train of thought back even further into this cacophony of intermeshing bullshit, farther back in time, _kind of like a king,_ he repeated silently, _a king of men,_ stringing the sentence in reverse, _something someone told me once…_ but Yata was quick to shake his head and wipe his eyes, too invested, willingly or not, in what was, or was no longer, right in front of him to get caught up in that quite yet.

And yet, the mind rarely sought permission now, did it?

 **┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄  
**   _Approximately Four Years Earlier_ _ **  
**_**┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄**

   
“ _Eh_?”

The sudden interruption of subtle intervening smoke eclipsed the conversation, the drowsy emission of opinion lazily punctuated and leaning slowly into a cigarette.

“Fire isn’t one color,” Mikoto exhaled, seemingly disinterested the way he dragged his cigarette, prioritizing its importance, but too unlike their king to contribute to such trivial squabbles.

Yata immediately silenced, despite the subject that had him seething not even half a second ago, attention instantaneously redirected—confused—unsure—and undergoing the faintest indignity as far as his pride, “B-but Mr. Mikot—”

“Yatagarasu,” two intensely serious and colorlessly devoid eyes fell in his direction, “do you know _why_ Fushimi is the only clansman to ever get burned even though he was accepted?”

He was staring intently, having risen from the incline of his body against the couch, and the smaller boy was speechless, an intangible tension forming in the space their King stared through, expecting an answering, not asking for one.

“Of course not,” Yata looked away, disliking this out of thin air defense of the _one_ clansman who also respected Mikoto-san the least, “I mean, I guess, I just figured—”

“It’s because his fire isn’t anything like ours,” Mikoto laid back down, arms crossed behind his head, eyes turned up towards the ceiling, “If you don’t know why, then you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he ash'd his cigarette, and it was hard to tell if there was a difference of emotion in his voice or not, but he seemed more solemn than usual as he spoke, “Don’t let me hear you using that word in here again until you do.”

Yata was at another loss for sound, jaw hinging and eyes going sensitive, a surge trapped behind tear ducts that felt sharp. Prickling and holding it back with his best efforts to present a false front, one of those involuntary instances that was too organic to really disguise, but he’d never been on the receiving end of the Red King’s reprimand, and it felt _horrible,_ the vaguely detectable annoyance and limited patience for putting up with his behavior. So…dismissive. _Why,_ he thought, eyes turning to an empty fraction of space above the ground, almost crossing in avoidance, lips wavering unsettlingly in an indeterminable arch, _why was he defending_ Fushimi _like this?_ _How had_ his _loyalty been reduced beneath the worth of an alleged traitor?_

“Y-yeah,” he stumbled, spilling into a stutter, “i-it wont happen again,” turning with the twist and fall of his skateboard against the floor. Certainly the fastest, but least graceful exit of Homra he’d ever made thus far, usually so much more coordinated, almost knocking over Kamamoto on his way out.

“Mik _ooo_ to,” Totsuka whined in demurral, raising his objections straightaway, Kusanagi in this rare unconciliating silence, practically the mother hen of mediating.

“ _Hah?_ ”

Yata only catching the last few fading fragments of conversation.

“You shouldn't talk to Yata-kun so _insensitively_ ,” Totsuka _humphed,_ “you really hurt his feelings just now, you know.”

Which may have been true, but that made Yata feel weaker and more stupid than ever and faster than he could get out of ears range, eyes finally welling and falling in sequence. First Saru, now Mikoto-san, why did it seem like _Homura_ was all starting to fall apart right before him? Such slow confused crying besmirching his cheeks, why did it feel like he was about to lose _everybody._

“Fushimi was always going to leave, Totsuka, one way or another,” Mikoto exhaled irritably, “And he should have already realized that, he should have known that way before now.”

“ _Tsh-Tsh,_ ” Kusanagi finally intervened at last, “Mikoto, Totsuka, enough of that kind of talk—you should be more discreet, _er_ , more considerate, I mean.”

“ _Ehh?_ Of what?”

“OF _WHAT?_ ” Yata heard the distant sound of Totsuka delivering a rough swat over their king's head, “Fushimi-kun was _important_ to Misaki.”

“So they’re friends,” the deep auburn haired man mumbled into the motions of another Marlboro.

An even harsher swat, “ _'So they’re friends'_ , he says,” Totsuka reprimanded irritatedly, “You might be the _laziest_ King, but you’re still _their_ King, so don’t give me that. You know how close those two were—you shouldn’t make him feel worse.”

Kusanagi sighed, “He’s taking it harder than I thought…” trailing off.

Mikoto interrupting, “…you didn’t tell him, did you?” he sighed more burdensomely, “I should have known.”

“No, because you should have done it _yourself_ ,” Tatara scolded.

A chorusing sigh and a set down glass from behind the bar joining in with such heavy and conflicted guilt, “I couldn’t,” his sigh deepened, “you know how Yata gets, he would’ve never let it happen, you didn’t _see him_ the other day,” Kusanagi’s voice going half way disappointed and halfway sad, “he was so…excited, it would’ve crushed him.”

“That’s not his choice, it wasn’t up to him.”

“ _Suoh!_ ”

“Aye-aye, I’ll talk to him,” Mikoto heaved himself from the couch, running his fingers through his hair, “what a mess.”

And that’s when Yata took off at full speed _for real_ this time, darting down the block, into the nearest alleyway, _what the hell is going on_ , he thought frantically, heading in the general direction towards home, _Saru, what aren’t you_ telling _me…what isn’t_ everybody _telling me…Seriously though, Saru…_ a heartbroken, innocent kind of frown filling in his face, _when did you start keeping so many secrets from me?_ A little less than _not okay_ on the inside, but putting all his stamina into the speed, to get back to the apartment. But a combustions curl of flames, bright red and spreading in every direction blocked his exit.

“Yata,” Mikoto appeared, first within the delayed echo of a chain, suspenseful rattling with every step, “we need to talk,” his body sauntered into view, flicking a half lit cigarette to the side, “It’s about Fushimi.”

┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄  
_Back in present time_  
┄━═─┅━┉╌╍╌┉━┅─═━┄

But Yata was just as quick to cut the reminiscence off at the knees, refusing to let the conversation manifest; the mind may not have sought permission, but it was also deeply militarized, hardwired to shutdown any sentiments that fled their proper jurisdictions. Invading the taped off, heavily fortified territories as trespassers, threatening personal security, and so the mind merely smothered them, suppressed them, repressing and removing them from working memory. Keeping deeper meaning and even the delicate contents of such encounters at a safe enough distance, like a restraining order, demagnetizing their very ability to ground or get any closer. And that's precisely what he'd done. Shut down. Erased everything that had followed, preceded, and produced the previous interruption, latching onto the flashbulb of red flames and the perfectly fierce rotational disposal of a cigarette flying through the air and flittering away. 

Digressing. Mikoto. Fushimi. Concepts merging back together. Pristine white paper and tawny speckled filter tucked behind his ear, bunching the neatly disheveled gunmetal shaded strands that had forcibly shifted to accommodate the foreign object. Scatterbrained and fleeting enough to get all wrapped back up in the fascination and off putting visual that still didn't fit. Surprised the other could even stand the extra weight without pitching a fit, forcing the cigarette to fit and share the space already occupied by the temple tips of his glasses. Always so picky and particular about the way his hair fell or the way he wore headphones—another cringe, recoiling at the sight of that stupid word once more— _honestly,_ _for somebody who hides a thousand_ knives  _around his person, he's really hyperspastic about some super simple shit,_ Yata shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching to the side in the semblance of a smile,  _but then again, he wouldn't be Fushimi if he wasn't an impossible to understand, knit-picky bitch all the time._

Similarities to their previous scowl-inducing, sarcastic, but so _like_   _them,_   banter from before turning the sentiments sad and disconsolate, hard to remember the fleeting happiness of what he figured must've been hell temporarily freezing over, keeping the paradise lost abyss of the inferno tame as its alternating circles rose up to form a platform. Momentary middle ground where they could walk across the eternal punishment of what seemed a fated perdition isolating them on conflicting levels, until the heat paradoxically melted the same fierce, fixated flames fleetingly preserved in the rime that cared little for reason; a paralysis formed by the rapid freezing of water vapor. So counterintuitive for water and fire to intermix and create ice, coagulating like liquid fire into this semisolid, only to deliquesce back into it's original form by the same elemental transfer that had been so easily trapped just seconds prior.

He sighed,  _I know_ , he upturned his eyes at the imaginary friend of his friend hanging ever so dedicatedly over his head,  _that paradox was shit, "that paradox was absolute shit,"_ it overlapped,  _"nice idea, but you rushed it, became redundant, and ruined it by over rationalizing what's beyond your mental capacity,"_ and sadly, the grinning cadence wasn't snarky in the way that carried spite, just offering outdated versions of what Fushimi was capable himself of offering as reassurance,  _"perhaps it's like epinephrine,"_ it suggested,  _"and the fire, blood. The adrenaline triggered by anger, stress, and fear, it accelerates the heart, sharpens the senses, and coagulates the blood into a semisolid state. It's fluid and wide-ranging, yet only released selectively, but also has a crystalline structure. Scientifically. The comparison is flawed. But based in Fight or Flight responses...so, if blood is fire, then it is both fluid and crystalized, semisolid, but free flowing, and not a permanent fixture, nor always present."_

Yata's head was starting to spin, forgetting the factual spew of leftover intelligence his subconscious was throwing up and setting to the soundtrack of a much more conniving, calmer voice were actually his own thoughts to begin with. Merely projecting them onto a ghost of someone who would have made more sense than him. "Ugh, enough, what's your point," he sniffled, feeling stupid, as he should—refer to the previously stated.

 _"My point?"_ he tsk'd with a languid drawling _,_ and Misaki could practically see the refined features narrowing knowingly in a playful taunt, " _There_ is  _no 'my' point, don't go blaming such loose ended nonsense on me, these are **your** thoughts, you know that right? There's only  **your** point, Y'ata-pay-better attention." _

"You're terrible," sun-stained eyes flicked downward, pouting, giving into this fictionally confirmed conversation, "that was...seriously, terrible."

_"Well, I'm you. So, congratulations on being terrible. Acceptance is the first step. Really making strides here, proud of ya' champ."_

He scowled, "Not very Fushimi sounding."

The tone was flat, a bit of a cynically playful smirk, _"Guess you really don't know what goes on in my head very well at all, now do you, Mi. Sa. Ki? Even_ you _can't read me anymore, how disappointing, how boring, how_ useless _."_

"It's not like I like it either," he hugged the pillow to his chest, mumbling, the disparity of sadness leaking back into his vocal cords, "it's not like I  _asked_ for this to happen."

A pause. No subconscious narration. No make-believe-Fushimi. Then a sigh, echoing and tapering and growing increasingly faint, " _Fight or flight. It's a five second window. You stand your ground. Or you run away. You weigh your options, your fire bolsters or burns out. Your blood heats, runs warmly, or shuts off and freezes over. You either build a bridge, or you burn it down, but there is no_ _in-between. Transition isn't optional, middle ground doesn't exist. Stop trying to maintain it. Because it won't maintain you. It will break you. Figure it out,"_ but the voice that had returned in an ominous, faint echo suddenly turned into low-toned, cold ringing that stood out contrastingly stark in comparison,and it gave Misaki preemptive chills, almost subvocalizing the clicking of his own tongue,  _"d_ _on't you think you've broken enough already?"_ somber, spiteful, and slipping away, becoming unapproachable, despondent, distant, _"Look around. Honestly. Break yourself. But don't you dare keep breaking me in your place."_

And with that the sound dissipated and false conversations officially died with the steady brim filled glistening that rose and rolled sideways slowly from the corner of one eye, down in a delve, and then over the bridge of his nose. A few falling against his cheek and colliding with the adjacent droplets, a few others hitting the pillow he'd begun to hug more like a body than something to stifle the sound.  _Talking to myself, I must be certifiable. Talking to myself_ as _somebody else, certainly calls for a psych eval. Talking to myself **as** somebody else, _ TO _myself, **responding** AS myself, and exchanging mutual confirmation of that fact in passing, fuck it, I'm committable. Lock me up, already—then throw away the fucking key. I mean it. I'm _ really _losing it,_ he was losing everything. He got the moral. The twisted bullshit his brain was trying to feed him in its own idiotic, hardly sense-making way, and he didn't like it. The unease. This necessitating change. Still too lost in Fushimi, projecting, deflecting, and groping around in the dark like a blindman because he couldn't see through him clearly because he  _could_ see through him clearly. So clear it lacked convolution. Fushimi without convolution was. 

He crossed his legs at the ankles as he curled his knees closer together and tucked them back up into the pillow morphing into his chest cavity,  _dangerous,_ the arch of his eyebrows pinching together in reluctant contemplation, creating creases of tension,  _unpredictable,_ salt like saline still spilling from his eyelids and back into his nasal passages, causing it to run. Bridge crinkling and scrunching as he pulled back and inhaled sharply, such a petite, quiet sniffling. _Fushimi without convolution was_. Was. Was... _somebody I don't even know anymore. I don't even know if I ever really did. And now he's clearly through with giving me the chance to...You never want to see me again. **Again**. You're excommunicating, does that mean this was already my second chance and I'm really too stupid to have seen that? But how do you EVER expect me to understand if you keep LEAVING?_

 _"Maybe you should stop telling me to,"_ he mumbled, making a hand puppet by hinging his thumb over his index finger, all curled into a fist, maneuvering it up and down like a mouth, laughing despite how immature he was being,  _especially_ for how immature and childish he was being. But it didn't stop the subject matter from haunting him, like quadruped beasts on a carousel, these ideas running rampant, and he couldn't decide which to settle on, so instead, he sat on them. One by one. Sometimes twice. Sometimes for what felt like hours.

_"Why do you want me to be understood by everyone when you yourself don't? If YOU understand me, I would be content."_

_No more flashbacks, no more memories,_ he flinched, the soundbit of ancient dialogue filling in like the corresponding evidence required for the original essay based format he'd fitted himself brilliantly with, with his themes, and his interconnecting paragraph structure of constant rehashing and validating how shitty he was. _This_ was. EVERYTHING was. He'd asked an arm and a leg and the full, undivided attention, patience, personality bending mandatorily inflicted changes of his best-friend, and in return, his only true request was Yata's understanding. To understand who he was, how he felt, what he was thinking. And unlike his own boisterous, far less ambiguous and completely _in your face_  approach, Fushimi's intentions had been more ambivalent, unspoken, it's not like he'd ever verbally asked and extended such a desire. He'd never do that. He just. _Expected me to know...to understand..._

_But I don't._

"I don't even understand my OWN feelings right now, Foosh," he gritted his teeth accusatorially, "I'm not a genius like you. I can't multitask. I can't balance them BOTH because suddenly you decided to go all show and tell and divulge all your best kept secrets with a goddamn demonstration," the steam was threatening to rise off his face, "I guess I take it back, you really are a goddamn special ops, top tier, best in the business hidden weapons user after all. Using an attack like  _that_." In some ways, he supposed, it was a testament to some more genuine, more gallant notion of knowing true friends supposedly stab you from the front, but high ideals and common phrase sayings didn't exactly do much in the area of convincing him it had felt all that much better than being stabbed in the back.

Juxtaposing the instances, he supposed he hadn't really expected either per say, so regardless, he'd been caught off guard, overwhelmed, and taken by surprise. But this wasn't something he could look away from, never have to truly know what that driving force behind the final blow had been, because he'd never seen it coming, could hardly remember it when it was happening. But this he'd stared straight in the face, eyes deadlocked, an influx of information undulating in a surge and swell of wavelike motion that matched the mental memorization of movements. Every acute, tiny, detail. Up close and personal, quite _literally_ breathing the same air. Impossible to drown out that knowledge, that noise, that natural disaster that followed after like the calm before another storm. 

An attack that would always gauge an uncontrolled emotional response when confronted with, stealing more than just the tears he was sacrificing to this cluster fuck, mind fuck of what the  _fuck_ had just happened, but even basal tears, like the involuntary welling that arose from coming into close contact with harsh winds, poignant onions, dust, pollen, irritants like clouds of smoke that rose and obscured the accuracy of the optic radius, a forced watering required to dispel the veils and distractions cloaking visibility like decretive lenses. But he was losing himself and his train of thought to congested sinuses that were backlogging into his brain, latching back onto the singular notion of smoke. Digressing directionless. Just the intervening imagery of the person he felt he didn't know as well as he thought he did, who he'd truly never know when or how long had started keeping so many secrets from him. 

That cigarette. The smoking, mind completely derailed to forgo the painfully incontestable and convincing himself he was taking those faltered steps to try and better _understand_. 

Trying to figure out when the other boy had picked up such a habit, having always constantly complained about the smoke his Father—whenever he _mentioned_ his father, that is—carelessly blew all over _that_ house. _That house,_ he repeated, deviating and lapsing any level of cohesive cognitive mapping, his mind amiss, and contradictory sadness enveloping him. The fact Fushimi had never once referred to the house as his, as home—overlapping with the guilt of having destroyed the one place the other had ever truly deemed his own, the very place he himself had _insisted_ they get, to move in together, anything to take Saru away from that horrible house that didn't deserve him in the first place, the fact he still lived there...—then melting back into the controversial comparison to his father, a man Fushimi had no love for, and for good reason.

A subject Misaki couldn't consider for too long either without his blood boiling, that man who had mistreated his friend on so many levels _cruel_ wasn't a strong enough word, and so again, his mind wandered. Regressing back to the poetic-pacing, the subtle resemblance to the king Fushimi never spoke of, and then again to the smoking. The incredible amount of stress he had to have been under, and the redhead couldn't help but wonder how long and how heavy this invisible weight had been fighting the force of gravity and the strength of Saruhiko's shoulders. How much he'd been holding inside, and for how long to have let such evident indicators show so blatantly, a master of manipulation when it came to masquerading his own emotions. But he wasn't hiding anymore, not even trying, and that uncertainty was throwing the smaller boy off track, curious, but terrifying. That pillar of stability was destabilizing and he had no idea how to hold onto it when forced to rely on his _own_ emotions. His own strengths, that no matter how outwardly projected, were extremely delicate and subject to self internalized criticism and reproach that rendered him too insecure to execute.

A control freak who was afraid to take control, afraid to venture into unknown waters, lacking the true confidence to trust himself. Always indecisive, with the exception of a few things, a few things that had all abandoned or been abandoned, and left him lost in his own head—a dangerous place when left to his own devices. Like water constantly exchanging forms, from a liquid to a solid, fluidly flowing like a river, rapid, requiring caution; or eroding and depositing in constant changes of direction like a meandering stream, calm and lax, but so easy to grow complacent; then suddenly crystalized, solid and shut off, any attempts invalidated without any stable foothold to ground into, just like ice, either unable to penetrate the surface, or slipping beneath it, trapped and unaware how much more has accumulated than the eye can perceive. Then, on the rare occasion, it felt like he could evaporate, becoming nothing more than water molecules in the atmosphere waiting to condensate, a state of elusive indifference, a sort of disappearing act. And right now, he felt like all four examples, all three forms combine, like some shit _Captain Planet_ super power that didn't make _any_ conceivable sense.

Running his hands episodically down his face, twisting to burrow more securely in a mess of pillows and blankets. Fushimi's scent unexpectedly calming given the current situation, tucking his chin into the collar of his t-shirt only to find that too smelled strongly of the other boy. Guiltily pulling it up to his nose with both hands and inhaling deeply with his eyes closed, letting the sensation attack his sensory, this bewitching elixir of serenity and heat almost asphyxiating. The way the aroma clung to every inch of him like smoke, the way it lingered long after you'd watched it dissipate and disperse in a sinuous haze, so many analogous comparisons and similes intended to divert his attention from the initial subject proving counterproductive. Hazardously drawing his eyes to a distinct collection of emerald green and white packages scattered and stacked on top of the desk where the taller boy had infuriately yanked a new one and disrupted the previously even, orderly placement, knocking a cartons worth and an ashtray to the side.

 _You **kissed** me, _Yata hissed again inwardly, wincing a little, cringing a little, groaning, grumbling, and feeling like he very much wanted to die at that moment. Just curl up and die. Of shame. Embarrassment. Curiosity.  _KILL ME._ He kicked his hands and feet like a child before settling ineludibly, realizing his temper tantrum wasn't eliciting any pity, special treatment, or automatic out.

Burying his face back into his shirt, groaning and irritated with the immediacy of bashful modesty that turned his insides back out, tongue tracing the groove of his bottom lip as he brought it between his teeth. He could still taste it. The faint traces of a cigarette, exploring the inside of his mouth as if it would spontaneously resurface, that transfer of warmth, unexpectedly soft, subtle hints of menthol, nothing like he would have thought it would. Sort of like spearmint, cool, stimulating, but a little more diluted, intermixing pleasantly with the flavor of something he couldn't describe. How did you describe the taste of a _person_? Short of attaching the key word to their name, something Yata blushed furiously at the mere thought of.

" _Whhhyyyy,"_ he groaned loudly, all muffled by covers as he rolled onto his stomach and covered his face, butterflies he wished he could rip the wings off of bursting from cocoons like they'd been there, waiting, for years, a transformation he could neither stomach or stress enough. Different while absolutely the same as it had always been, only everywhere now, _fluttery_ , ideating and running a hundred miles, and every single one in the wrong direction. And the more determinedly he tried _not_ to think about it, the more effortlessly it flooded into his central nervous system, reeking havoc, strengthening and weakening the synapses in his brain, which were firing with little concern for a refractory period, taking advantage of action potentials that never existed. That would have never even occurred to him before. Inexhaustible, incomputable, and absolutely infuriating. " _FUckthiSsHIt,"_ Yata cursed in an undecided combination of irony and spite, repeating the problematic playlist title he found to be _more_ than fitting, groaning and restlessly tossing about, the subconscious overlapping of his bottom lip becoming an almost methodical force of habit, outlining the absence of where another pair had been wedged a little too perfectly between, and _hating_ himself for describing such an outrageous action with words like _perfectly_.

" _Stupidjerk. Stupidjerk. Stupidjerk,"_ came rushing out next, whether an attempt to coverup the former lapse in descriptive judgement or to quell the persistency of the on-going emotionalistic outburst that continued cresting like a wave that broke against his chest, he wasn't sure. He wasn't thinking about that, he didn't have the time, or the patience, or the inclination to justify his behavior or deal with rationale, not when all he could focus on was that cresting. That unmistakable breaking, inundating and overtaking such a sensitive space, ribcage absolutely useless, defenseless against the unwarranted strength of those collisions, stupid _fucking_ butterflies still _fluttering_ , tides churning restlessly, riptides and undertows dragging him through some sort of hormonal crash course from hell.

Clamping his hand abruptly over his mouth, trying desperately and in vain to stop the hyperawareness and unfounded fascination that kept his tongue experimentally reenacting and retracing, but it backfired. The incident not even half an hour old, pressure mimicking pressure of a different breed, one with a pedigree, out of his league, and _way_ too skilled to claim such inexperience. Undergoing another involuntary shiver, and not the sort you get when you're cold or offset either, the _slow_ kind, the sort of pulsation that you can feel curve your body as it crawls up your back, exacting this perfect mental recreation as if to punish him. Like the world was shoving this whole mess in his face, just to twist the knife, to pour salt on top of the open wound of his best-friend slamming the apartment door that he hadn't even begun to forget. 

This god awful compilation of counteracting emotions, sadness, and yet, this incomprehensible fullness, reluctance combating with urgency that had no designated outlet, not quite innocent, not quite platonic, not quite anything. Except everything. Yata sighed, flipping his whole body forward in an uncoordinatedly coordinated upward gesture, sitting with his legs crossed and his fingers frantically running back and forth through his hair. The logical thing was to leave. He _knew_ he should leave. He had no business being here. He was specifically told _not_ to be here. And yet, every time he caught sight of the door, something akin to a panic attack struck his heart valves, and the indecision made him go timid, too afraid to leave the sanctity of the sheets. The smell of familiarity both entrancing and repelling his senses. His legs hadn't regained enough strength, still wobbly, locking, unsure if he was physically capable.

 _I just_ ** _had_** _to pick up that fucking iPod,_ ** _didn't_** _I?_ He grimaced at the sight of it, his at least, somewhere off to the side, but close enough, songs and everything after resonating through every ear chamber possibly cable of perceiving sound, vibrating mercilessly and growing downtrodden at the realization if _only_ he'd left it alone, _then maybe I wouldn't have ruined_ ** _everything_** _._ Eyes prickling for an instant again, the actualization of the reality setting back in, staring down at both open palms with impassivity, " _can't you ever keep them to yourself?"_ he paraphrased. _Obviously not_ , Yata glared at them, reassessing the redhanded indisputability of the crime he'd caught himself committably smack dab in the center of before he felt the distinct impressions of someone else's sliding up his bare stomach. Patterns and pressure points reappearing, fingerprints of a separate crime resurfacing all over his body with equally condemning admissions of evidence, _and apparently, neither can you,_ he sighed, a haphazard attempt to shake the whole thing off, but it was hard to ignore the unmistakable folding of someone else's hand around your hips, the ease and caution of the tips of someone else's fingers ghosting across every inch of your skin, mapping out your body as if reading brail. Searching for some sort of answer, something to connect the dots.

And to make matters worse, as if that word hadn't already been exhausted as it was, or as if such a thing were humanly _possible_ at this point, it wasn't just _someone else_ , it wasn't just _anybody_ , he had the prints, the DNA, this wasn't a blank outline with a question mark printed over the face posted up in some police station of a crime show, he had a name and a face and all the necessary facts. This was a Positive ID. It wasn't _someone else's_ fingers he could feel, _someone_ ** _else's_** hands, they were Fushimi's. Saru's. They were Saruhiko's hands, his palms Misaki couldn't get to stop falling back over his figure in phantom form.

 _"So, do you believe me now?"_ Even the imaginary repetition of those words forced his body to jolt, weak in the knees, subconsciously licking his lips. " _Good, cause I really don't care,"_ and he swore all he could see were Fushimi's eyes drinking him in, so calm, but so different for that split second before his face melded slowly against his own, head tilted, hand pushed up into his hair, cradling his face as if he were the most precious thing in the whole world.

And that intoxicating rush washed right back over him in an instant; body rousing and reacting in accordance to the memory switching speeds, this gut feeling, butterflies and all, beginning to chase after the persuasion of the pace picking up. Running full speed ahead, reaching out with both hands as the flashback tapered and the footage had stolen all his focus, seduced by the sudden withdrawal of a high he was left unable to create. Standing in the middle of Fushimi's apartment, irradiated by some abysmal depth in his chest consecrating this extemporaneous rapacity, a smoldering sort of weakness, a restless, hyperkinetic yearning that left him fuming and breathing heavily. Now at the mercy of unresolved tensions, the birth of an impetuously rabid and inexplainable appetite and illogically seething impatience. Folding his fingers tightly into a fist, knuckles turning white, the first fix having instantaneously developed a chemically induced craving, like triggering the internal instincts of closet addict out of touch with their dealer, fighting the feeling, but feinding, frustrated, and shit out of luck. Brain and body split in an explicable divide: physically, having abandoned all shame; psychologically, disgusted with himself.

His best friend had kissed him.

And he'd kissed him back.

 _Fushimi_ kissed him.

And he'd allowed it.

Put his _hands_ on him.

And he'd pressed into them.

He'd been delicate,

then he'd devoured him.

Pulled him so close.

Like he was terrified to let go.

This exchange of restraint and ravenousness.

A split personality with very different skill sets.

The feeling of Saruhiko

Merging with Fushimi.

The first time **anybody**

had _ever_ touched him like that.

His first kiss.

He'd been furious.

It was awkward.

And **embarrassing.**

Kissing another boy.

To _be_ kissed by a boy.

Yata buried his face in his hands.

But he didn't hate it…

**_Fuck._ **

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIKE I SAID PEOPLE. PART FIVE. DRUNK MUNAKATA. haha.


End file.
